An Alternate Whouffleverse
by whouffle-oneshoterature
Summary: A Whouffle AU in which John Smith and Clara attend G.A.L.L.I.F.R.E.Y High School. Appearances from the Ponds (via Skype, they're on a NY exchange), Rose & Ten, Martha & Mickey and Donna. Many events parallel those of actual episodes. Eventually, Clara and John go to Uni and share a student unit, the TARDIS (Tight Accommodation/Residence Due to Income Shortages). Rated T to be safe.
1. The Schooling Summation (please read)

Ok

Some readers have been kind enough to write into me an attempt to explain the complexities of the English schooling system. Note the use of the term 'complexities'. I have no hope of understanding it.  
So apologies for the inconvenience/annoyance/irritation/frustration everyone, but I will be using the Australian school system, QLD, which is by far the easiest of all, I think. Maybe I'm just used to it.

We now start at Prep, but this was only introduced about six years ago (WOW that long already?!), so it didn't impact me directly and neither will it have affected Clara/Doctor in my AU.

This is the layout:

Primary (Americans, that's your 'Elementary' school): Year/Grade not including Prep which precedes Year 1) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 & 7 (this system is soon changing but that's irrelevant because I'm not paying attention to the new format).

** Most children change schools between Primary and High School. We don't have "middle school". There are a couple of Prep - 12 schools, though.

High School: Year 8, 9, 10 (you have the option to quit school at age 15, in Year 10, if you can prove you have an apprenticeship, contract or significant job offer - I'm pretty sure it doesn't count if you work at IKEA). Then, still in High School, is Year 11 and 12 (we term these students 'seniors'). However, unlike sixth form you still have to wear a uniform and basically it's just like 8-10.

**A summary for the rushed, busy or lazy: Clara and the Doctor are in Year 12 (as dictated by the Australian QLD school system). John is 17 (as most children in are) but Clara is 16, as she skipped a grade (this will be addressed at some point).  
Primary School: Years/Grades 1 - 7  
High School: Years/Grades 8 - 12 (11s and 12s are called seniors by most people)**

Sorry for the inconvenience, but if I tried to use the English system I'd just stuff it up. Thank you to the very kind people who wrote in and explained it, but I think this is probably the safer option.

:) I've got 2 extra new chapters, and will release them at some point.

x. the author


	2. Chapter 1 - The Oswald Occurence

**An Alternate Whouffleverse - chapter 1**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all. Not even the computer I'm writing on. It's quite sad, really. No, most unfortunately, every speck of ownership of Doctor Who resides with the BBC.**

The first time he sees her is when he's late for History class. He'd got lost, for no apparent reason, and wandered into a high level algebra lecture. It'd been interesting, and he'd stayed for about ten minutes, before he'd realised it wasn't history… and he wasn't supposed to be here.  
So John Smith had had to stand up awkwardly in the maths class, explain his predicament to the teacher, and leave. Within another two minutes, he had managed to find his way to his history class; well, at least, this time he was pretty sure it was his.  
This sort of 'getting lost' thing really should have stopped by now – he'd been at this school for nearly five years, after all. Heck, he was nearly _out _of this school. Just the rest of this year to go and he was gone.  
But when he walks into classroom 54, _definitely_ sure it is the right one, time seems to stop just long enough for him to see her. She's not doing anything to attract any sort of attention – in fact, quite the opposite. The girl is simply sitting very quietly in her chair, gazing at the pen that rests in her hands, and beside her, the only vacant desk in the room.  
His history teacher, Madame Vastra, had him in her class last year, and is very aware that while he is brilliant, John Smith also has a tendency to be a touch vague and dawdle off, and while this often results in him finding himself in interesting places, it does unfortunately nearly always make him late to wherever he is actually _supposed _to be. But she simply waves off his explanations and tells him to sit down so she can begin the lesson.  
He takes his place a little nervously beside the girl. She must be new to the school, or at least relatively so – he's sure even _he _would have noticed her around sometime: even though she's really rather small and probably blends quite well into a crowd, she seems very beautiful and somewhat perfect to him, with her long dark brown hair and even darker eyes.  
"Hi," he mutters. "I'm John Smith."  
The girl turns to him, her eyebrow quirking slightly. "_John Smith_?" she asks, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.  
He nods adamantly. "Yeah. Very boring, I know. Mostly, everyone around here just calls me 'the Doctor'. I still haven't worked out why. Must just be one of the nicknames you never quite know how you got. Why, what does everyone call you?"  
"My name," the girl tells him, in a slightly sarcastic manner. John can't tell if she's stupid, or deliberately evading the question. Right now he's going with the latter, because if he can see anything in her eyes, it's _certainly _not a lack of intelligence – quite the opposite; she has a sort of mischievous, calculating expression, which also hides a mingled sadness.  
"Ok… Let's try again… My name's John Smith, and you are?" he says.  
The girl smiles a little again. "I'm Clara Oswald," she replies finally, before turning to face the teacher's board – Vastra's writing about something like 'The History of Wi-Fi'. What this question has to do with their class, John doesn't know, until he realises Madame Vastra had been trying to connect her computer to the internet, failed, and then utterly digressed from the topic at hand, her mind now pre-occupied with the curious invention that was 'Wi-Fi'.  
Ten minutes later, however, they manage to get back on task – they're learning about some Monks from the early 1200's.  
"Please open your textbooks to page 224. No, Max, not _that _textbook – no, the other one… yes, the big thick book by Professor Strax, that's it," Madame Vastra instructs, her bright green earrings and eye shadow making her look almost lizard-like.  
John sighs.  
"What?" the girl beside him, Clara Oswald, asks.  
He smiles a little at her. "Vastra's gone and set us Strax books again, I'm not really sure why – I think she just likes to disagree with everything he writes. She loves to go on and on about how he focuses too much on the wars and disputes of mankind, combat tactics and so on, as opposed to their advancement and cultural development. I swear, Strax books are _useless _for the curriculum she teaches."  
Clara nods slightly. "I had a teacher like that at my last school. Except he did things the other way around – he didn't think the textbook covered _enough _wars. Anyway, I haven't got one of the Strax books: I'm new, most of my stuff still hasn't come from the supplier people yet."  
He nods in understanding. "That's fine, just look onto mine," he offers.  
John only knows a little tiny bit about Clara Oswald by the time the period is over – not even a tad so much as he'd like to.  
He knows she's feisty, that she doesn't have a problem disagreeing with teachers about facts and that she can be quite nice when she wants to be. And he also notices, though he's not sure why, that she's very sad about something. He just can't work out what.  
Madame Vastra dismisses them two minutes early, as is always her way.  
As John's hurriedly packing all his things back into his bag, someone taps him on the shoulder. He turns in a most unco-ordinated fashion, which makes Clara laugh a bit. "Sorry," she begins, "but I'm supposed to see Principal Akhaten or something? Jackie Tyler, the administration secretary, said I had to go meet him after class. Anyway, could you tell me where his office is? I'm _really _new, I don't even know where I am – somewhere in B block, though, I believe."  
"Why've you got to go and see the Old God?" he asks her, frowning.  
"The Old _what, _sorry?" Clara replies, that eyebrow of hers jumping up again.  
He shrugs. "Everyone here calls Principal Akhaten the 'Old God', because he's the most snappy, self-absorbed, egoistic person you will ever meet, who could honestly eat his way through every kid's lunch in the entire school," he does and impression of the highly obese professor for her, puffing out his cheeks and stretching out his arms to show the size of the principal, which earns him an already-prized laugh from Clara.  
"Watch it, you don't want to go blowing your cheeks out with that chin of yours," she tells him.  
"What is _wrong _with my chin?" he mutters, rubbing the offending facial feature in a disgruntled manner.  
Clara shrugs. "Well, anyway, I've got to see the principal about some kind of 'enrolment confirmation' thing. Could you please tell me where his office is? I really don't want to be late, he sounds like the sort of person who'd stick me in detention… Not that detentions bother me, or anything, but I'd rather not spend too long here if I don't have to."  
John nods. "I'll take you to him," he assures her.  
They pass Doreen, the janitor, in the corridor on the way, and John waves to her, and she waves back. Clara discovers that John seems to know practically everyone in the entire institute, even if he does have an inability to navigate the halls particularly well.  
As John waves, Clara mutters an awkward "Hi," to the dumpy janitor.  
In response, Doreen simply makes a strange noise in the back of her throat. To stave Clara's confusion, John whispers sadly, "She's mute. She drives a hell of a motorcycle, though."  
Clara just nods, not really sure what to say. So she smiles at Doreen, and they keep moving.  
John is determined to out-do himself, this time, and not get lost _at all. _He nearly manages it, too, though he does accidentally run into Miss Kislet, the incredibly horrible science teacher who really has it out for him. Probably because he once pointed out in front of at least half the school that her theory on the public availability and neuro-science possibilities of the internet was entirely wrong. In retrospect, John thinks he probably could have told her _after _the presentation, but oh well. That had been at least a year ago, so she should have got over it by now. Obviously not.  
Miss Kislet tries to hold him up for bumping into her, but John just grabs Clara by the hand (that part wasn't really planned, it just sort of _happened_), dragging her past the foul science teacher. "Sorry, Miss," he calls over his shoulder. "Got to take Clara to the office!"  
As soon as they round the corner, John rather reluctantly drops Clara's hand, out of fear that she'll get cross at him rather than an actual desire to break the contact.  
"Who was she?" Clara asks, as they speed walk down the empty corridor.  
"A very, very grumpy teacher," John clarifies. "Miss Kislet. She hates me. Everyone hates her, though. All the juniors reckon she's some sort of spy for the school board, and the head, Dr Simeon. I think she's just horrible, though."  
Clara nods in understanding. "Right."  
A few minutes later, they stop outside a daunting, steel-coloured door, with a rectangular plastic plaque that reads _T. R. O. Akhaten. _  
"Well," John tells her, "good luck. I'll wait here for you."  
She raises an eyebrow at him. "Don't you have friends you want to visit?"  
He shrugs. "My two best friends, Amy and Rory, are both on an exchange in New York for the rest of the year, and I didn't really have a specific group of mates other than them, so I figured I'd just sort of… drift around a bit, this year," he says.  
Her eyebrow jumps even higher and an even more impressive angle. John wishes he could have eyebrows that obeyed his every whim like hers apparently did – he hardly even _had _eyebrows.  
"You were going to 'drift around' through _senior year_?" she clarifies.  
He nods confidently. "Yeah. _Oh, _well, not _entirely, _as such. I have a cousin, Ten, and his girlfriend, Rose, who I could hang out with if I wanted to."  
"Your cousin is called _Ten_?" Clara asks curiously.  
"No, of course not, that would be silly. But everyone calls him that, because he was born on the tenth of October at ten o'clock in the morning, and he had a twin for exactly ten minutes," the Doctor explains.  
"How can you have a twin for ten minutes?"  
"The other little boy died, his lungs weren't developed properly," John explains sadly. "So some people even call my cousin 'Ten 2', as he was born after."  
Clara nods to show her understanding and sympathy, but doesn't say anything. "Well," she mutters, after a moment, "I'd better go and see the _Old God_."  
She gives him a small smile, which actually makes John's day about 150% better, before knocking on the big grey door and disappearing inside. As the door swings shut behind Clara Oswald, the Doctor catches a snatch of one of the hymn songs that play on loop in Akhaten's office.  
A second later, she reappears, a slight frown on her face. "He's _asleep_," Clara says in a slightly irritated voice. "I'll have to back next break."  
John nods. "Right. Yes. If you want, I'll -"  
That's when Clara hears the crying. Quickly, she places a finger on her lips with a pointed glance in the Doctor's direction, and he shuts up immediately, listening hard.  
"Ssh," she mutters, turning and tentatively walking around the corner towards the noise.  
John's not really sure what to do – should he follow? He figures that's probably best, so after hesitating only for a few moments, he twirls around and carefully echoes her footsteps.  
It takes him a moment to see her.  
Clara is kneeling on the ground beside a small blonde girl, no more than twelve years old, though she looks even younger, who has sunk down against the wall, tear tracks running down her already pale face.  
"Hey," Clara is saying softly, lightly touching the tiny girl's shoulder.  
The child looks around, hurriedly wiping her face with her hand. "Sorry," she mutters, going to stand up.  
Clara's grip turns firmer on the girl's shoulder. "Nothing to be sorry about. What's wrong? Are you lost?"  
The child shakes her head. "No. Well, I'm trying to be. I don't want to go back to Akhaten."  
Clara frowns. "He's asleep, now. What's wrong?"  
The girl shrugs. "He wants me to sing in front of the school board and Doctor Simeon as part of the school's musical show. But I don't want to do it, I'm not good enough."  
Clara smiles softly at her, brushing her own brown hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ear. "Hey, I'm sure he wouldn't ask if he didn't think you were good enough."  
More tears spill down the kid's face. "I _might _be good enough, but I still can't sing in front of people. A-and when I t-told him I w-wouldn't, he – he s-slapped me."  
John watches as Clara's expression turns from kindly to angry. She gently takes the little girls hand and tugs her upright. "What's your name?"  
"Mary," she replies.  
"I'm Clara, and this is John," the older girl says, gesturing at the Doctor. "And we're going to help you out of this."  
John nods vigorously. He's still trying to put everything together in his head – everyone has always hated Principal Akhaten, feared him, even, but the Doctor never thought he'd harm a child. There's a very big step from being a scary, grumpy, overweight, shout-y middle aged man and actually assaulting a twelve year old girl.  
Clara turns to him, whispering quietly, "John, I know even less about this school than she does. Where do we go? If Mary's telling the truth, if Akhaten did slap her… we have to tell someone."  
Again, the Doctor nods certainly. "We – we can go and see Jenny, the Deputy. She's very nice. Everyone's been hoping for years that Akhaten will leave and she'll take his place. We'll go to her."  
Five minutes later, they're standing outside another door, though admittedly less looming and threatening than Akhaten's. This one simply reads _Miss Jenny. _  
"Doesn't she have a last name, or something?" Clara queries as they wait for their knocks to be answered.  
John smiles. "Of course she has a proper name, Clara, but she's very modern – she doesn't want us students to feel inferior to adults, as she thinks it doesn't encourage our social development, as she has decided that one of the ways to promote mutual respect is to have us all on a first name basis."  
A second later, the door clicks open, and they are met with a warm smile from a petit yet hardy woman with brown-black hair and deep, dark eyes.  
"Hi," she says cheerily, gesturing for them to join her in the spacious office, the walls of which are covered spectacularly with artworks of previous students from the primary school at which she used to teach. "Come on in, John, Mary – and you must be Clara."  
Clara nods carefully, though she looks a lot less nervous and tense than she did when John first saw her in their history class. Now there is someone who needs helping, she seems determined to leave behind all the troubles that _she _had needed help for. "How do you know my name?" she asks.  
Jenny shrugs. "You're the only student new today in the senior year. I know the names of nearly everyone at _G_reater _A_rea _L_ondon - '_L_ighter, _I_conic _F_uture' - _R_emedial _E_ducation (_Y_ears 8 – 12), though thank goodness I didn't name the actual _school. _I would never give a place a name so long that even the acronym we use – GALLIFREY – is an actual word itself."  
"We're a _Remedial _Education school?" Clara frowns.  
Jenny shakes her head. "Not anymore; this used to be a corrective institute a long time ago, when it was named before the War – World War II, that is – but we've got rid of the violent behaviour in students, now," the Deputy assures her.  
That's when John steps in. "Perhaps you've eradicated it amid students, Miss, but not everyone else." He then proceeds to explain Mary's predicament.  
Jenny's warm smile degrades quickly to a frown and finally a very, very angry expression. "Thank you, John. Can you and Clara please take Mary to the medical bay? I have to make a phone call to the board."  
The Doctor and Clara nod simultaneously, turn and take Mary with them as they leave. The small girl is still partially in tears, so Clara makes small talk with her as they go, trying to calm her down. John just listens as Mary whispers about how silly it was for her to be scared of performing, and how she should have done it to keep Akhaten happy. He listens even more intently as the older girl tells Mary how there is nothing wrong with being afraid of anything, and how Clara herself used to be terrified of getting lost as a small child.  
When they reach the medical bay, Mary gives Clara a quick hug by way of a thank you, smiles at John, and disappears inside.  
"What time does break finish?" Clara asks him as they continue down the corridor.  
John hurriedly checks his watch. "In about fifteen minutes. We should probably go to the eating hall."  
"You guys have a hall? That's awfully posh," she replies playfully. "At my old school, we used to just eat outside in the sun – or whatever kind of sun you can get in England."  
John smiles at her. "I wish we could do that. Akhaten should take a leaf out of your book," he says.  
He notices in puzzlement and panic as Clara's eyes slowly fill with tears – John, while not having admitted it to himself, had rather planned on knowing Clara for quite some time, and very much hoped he would never see her cry, not to mention on the first day he met her, and much less at something he'd said.  
"I – Clara, what's wrong? What did I say?" John asks in a garbled sort of way, desperately wanting to know how to stop the tears from rolling down her small, perfect face.  
"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "It's just – you wouldn't understand," she tells him.  
"I might," he replies kindly.  
She shrugs at this, and stops in the hall beside him, putting down her book bag and pulling out a large, illustrated children's book, titled _101 Places To See. _"This was my mum's," she says, only showing him the cover for a moment before flicking it open – pressed inside the book is a dried Autumn leaf. "And this is the reason my parents met – this leaf blew… never mind, sorry to bother you, you probably don't care, but just when you said _take a leaf out of my book_, I just thought of…"  
After a half-second's hesitation, John gently rests a hand on her small shoulder, very light – she's at least a good head and a half shorter than he is, but that doesn't stop him thinking she could be a very scary 5 foot tall teenager if he made her cross. "Hey," he says, "I do care." He doesn't even know why, but there is something about Clara Oswald that makes him care very, very much.  
She just smiles weakly at him. "Well… my mum…" she trails off, and the Doctor thinks he does indeed sort of understand where this may be going. "Let's just find the lunch room, ok?" she says finally.  
"Of course," he nods to show his understanding. "This way."

John doesn't think he's ever enjoyed a lunch break more than today's he spent with Clara Oswald. She perks up considerably after he starts making poor jokes and accidentally tripping over his own feet.  
Since she doesn't know her way around (that's how he justifies it to himself, anyway) he walks her to the door of her next class, Home Economics. This results in him being late for his next period, during which he sits next to Ten, and they play a game between them: every time the professor makes an incredibly unfunny joke, they say _physics. _The outcome of this game is, of course, that Ten sits there, ruffling his hair and muttering _physics _every few seconds, while John hardly participates at all, his mind very much elsewhere. In fact, it is somewhere in the in the senior Home Economics room, wherever Clara Oswald happens to be.


	3. Chapter 2 - The Akhaten Adventure

**Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who  
Warning: This ****_is _****an AU. If you don't know what that is, it means the story is set in an Alternate Universe, in this one specifically, the characters go to high school.**

After physics, John has manual arts. While he hasn't _exactly_ admitted it to himself, he'd been rather hoping to find Clara there. Not that she had any reason to be, of course – it didn't seem like her subject. It's quite an interesting lesson today, though – he and Donna manage to dislodge the chain on the bandsaw. Donna's not actually big on wood carving and furniture and such, but as she puts it, _"You're not having me baking muffins in Home Ec, thank you very much, sunshine,"_. And the Doctor doesn't know anyone who would try to convince Donna Noble to do something she didn't want to, even a teacher. Surely no one was that stupid. There was another reason, too, though, that nobody forced that girl into anything: she suffered from a rare mental condition that meant some days, she just _wouldn't remember _particular people. Donna had been Ten's best friend in primary school – John particularly recalled Ten being very upset when Donna had simply turned to him and said, "Who?"  
At lunch, he heads to the eating hall, hoping to see Clara there. His attempts are more than somewhat hindered by her shortness: even if she were here, the crowd would have swallowed Clara Oswald by now.  
Defeated, he heads over to where Ten and Rose normally sit, and generally Donna too. To John's very great surprise, he also sees Clara, talking to Rose.  
"Hey, you two," John says, appearing behind them.  
Clara jumps, but Rose doesn't. "He does that," the blonde girl advises. "You think he's on the other side of the school and then _BAM - _he's standing right there. I swear he can materialise anywhere he wants."  
Clara smiles. "Hi, John," she mutters. "How was physics?"  
"Good. How was double Home Ec?"  
"Fine. We had to bake soufflés, but it turns out that of all the things I cannot cook, soufflés are a great, big number one," Clara says darkly, but also jokingly.  
"How do – how do you…" John begins, unsure exactly how he wants to frame his words, so he just vaguely waves a finger between Rose and Clara, hoping they get the drift.  
"The teacher put us in a pair for cooking," Rose explains, tucking her hair behind her ear.  
Looking over her shoulder, John can see Ten tip-toeing up behind Rose, his hands poised to grab her by the shoulders. He smiles as Ten pounces down, making Rose jump about half a foot. She turns 180 degrees and slaps him on the shoulder, only three quarters playfully.  
"That was less than nice," Rose tells him, though she still gives Ten a hug.  
"But funny," Ten reminds her, kissing her cheek. Then he turns to Clara. "Hi, I don't think we've met. I'm Ten," he says, holding out a hand.  
"Clara," she replies, shaking it. John and Ten were the only two teens she knew who actually did hand-shaking.  
"Clara's in my Home Economics class," Rose adds by way of clarification.  
"Right," Ten says. "Shall we go eat?"  
The four of them head off to the corner of the eating hall they seem to have claimed, breaking off into two pairs as they walk. Rose and Ten walk in front, chatting happily, their hands locked together, and Clara and the Doctor walk behind, also talking, but (disappointingly for John) not holding hands.  
Clara seems altogether less quiet and reserved to John than before; perhaps she feels a little less threatened, excluded or upset, he can't decide, but she's quite happy to talk about her 'Mount Vesuvius soufflé', as she deems it. And he's more than happy to listen.  
As Rose and Ten beat them to the corner and sit down, Clara asks, "How long have they been together, then?"  
He shrugs. "About a year and a half, I think. Rose used to go out with a guy called Mickey Smith, but then she met Ten, and Mickey is dating my friend Martha, now."  
"What about you?" she prompts. "Where's your girlfriend?"  
"I don't have one," he tells her, adding a small and hopeful _yet_ in his head.

"Do you know where Classroom A12 is?" Clara asks him, as they pack their things away from lunch.  
"Yes, I'm going there – why, are you in Miss Willow's Advanced English course?" John replies, casually stuffing his (practically) three pound maths textbook into his bag.  
"Well, I'd assume so, Sherlock, as you and I are clearly in the same class," she raises an eyebrow at him.  
Five minutes later, they've taken seats at the back of their English class, and watching patiently as their teacher discusses in depth and quite animatedly the mystery of the seemingly incomplete 'Love's Labour's Lost' story.  
"You know," the Doctor mutters, "I've always wondered about that. Don't you reckon it'd been cool to go back, and, I don't know, meet Shakespeare?"  
Clara nods. "It'd be cool to meet _anyone _from the past. Or the future. There's so much out there, so much to see, and probably all I'll get around to is greater London."  
John almost mentions her book, _101 Places To See, _but the memory of the tears in her eyes does not inspire him to bring it up again.  
About twenty minutes in to their lesson, there comes a knock on their classroom door, and Jenny pokes her head in. "Sorry, Kate, but can I borrow Clara and John for a second?"  
John assumes Kate is Miss Ebony, though he's really never given much thought to her name. He's always liked the way titles hide names. He's not sure why.  
Miss Ebony nods cheerfully and waves them out into the corridor, where Jenny shuts the door behind them.  
"Sorry to pull you out of class," she begins.  
"It's fine," Clara and John reply simultaneously.  
Jenny smiles. "I know. I just wanted to let you know that I phoned the board about the incident with Mary, and action will be taken. Assaulting a child is probably a more serious offence than you two realise, so I just want to thank you for taking Mary to me and bringing it to our attention... it's highly likely Principal Akhaten will be invited to step down."  
"Fired, you mean," Clara says, and John can see the angry flare in her eyes. _She _had clearly realised just how serious the 'offence' was.  
Jenny hesitates for a moment before nodding. "Yes, I suppose, _fired_ is another way to put it. I just thought I'd let you know. I'll let you get back to your class now, and thank you again."  
They smile and nod a bit, before John grabs the doorknob to hold it open for Clara.  
"Oh, I almost forgot," Jenny mutters quickly, fumbling for a few files in the case she's carrying. "Madame Vastra asked me to give you these, she forgot to give them out during your lesson."  
Jenny hands them each a form with _Maritime Museum Excursion_ written boldly across the top. "It's for your unit on the Cold War," Jenny tells them. "You'll be going to look at some of the weapons, uniforms and submarines they used up close."

The rest of English passes without incident, and while John _does _want to go to running training with Ten this afternoon, he knows that with the end of his time in English finishes, so do his moments with Clara.  
Nevertheless, the minutes seem intent of passing, the bell seems intent on ringing, and the Doctor becomes more and more intent on _not _saying goodbye.  
Clara and John try file out of the room with everyone else, though there is a slight hold up in the escape of the twenty-seven teenagers: the door jams, and seems reluctant on ever opening. It would seem, John thinks, that the door has taken pity on him and is trying to assist him in his cause of remaining with his new friend as long as possible. However, John also knows that no-one will be overly stoked at being stuck in the classroom for the next twenty minutes while people out in the corridor laugh at them, until someone takes pity and gets the janitor.  
"Let me through," John says loudly. "I have a screwdriver."  
Out of his jacket pocket he pulls what indeed could pass as a _sort _of screwdriver, though is in fact more a Swiss Army knife. It's quite long and thick and cylindrical, with accessories like a bottle opener, torch, file, an actual screwdriver and a few more bits and bobs; it's fairly clear to Clara that he built it himself, and has been adding onto it slowly.  
The crowd of cross, desperate-to-leave Monday afternoon students part to let John reach the door. At first he presses the wrong button, and his screwdriver makes an odd buzzing sound, before John mutters, "Damn." After another moment, he fiddles around with one of the thin steel files stuck in the door lock, before it clicks open.  
He jumps out of the way to let the class rush past.  
Clara walks up beside him. "Your screwdriver thing goes buzz. _Why _does it go buzz?"  
John shrugs, not at all embarrassed. "In case I ever have to play one of those games where you have to hit the button with a buzz to answer a question," he explains, holding up the device and showing her the switch which activates the noise as they walk out of the classroom together.  
"And _will _you ever have to play one of those buzzer games?" Clara asks.  
John thinks for a moment. "I'm about 99% sure I won't. But best to be prepared, you know?"  
Clara nods, her eyebrows still raised slightly. "Yes. I suppose it is."  
Rose and Ten are waiting for them out in the hall. "John – still coming running training?" Ten asks.  
The Doctor frowns. "Um, yeah? Why wouldn't I be?"  
"No reason," Rose says. "Just checking – thought you might have... What took you guys so long to get out?"  
"Door jammed," Clara explains. "And, um – your school has running groups? Like cross country or something?"  
Rose nods. "We have a sprint team and cross country. Why, are you interested?"  
After a moment, Clara shrugs and nods. "I like running. I do a lot of it." The way she says that, quietly, almost to herself, makes John think that perhaps she doesn't only mean the physical kind.  
"Well, they still accept team members all year round," John tells Clara. "The instructor, Craig, he'll let you try out today, if you've got a PE kit."  
But Clara shakes her head. "I don't – I'm not taking it as a subject so I didn't think of buying one."  
Rose shrugs. "You can borrow mine, if you want."  
Clara smiles but shakes her head again. "You don't even know me, you sure you want to go lending out your stuff?"  
Rose nods. "Yeah – you seem alright. Besides, I spent two hours with you in Home Ec and watch you absolutely kill a soufflé. I feel I know the worst."  
Clara shrugs. "Yeah, all right, why not? My dad won't be home until seven pm anyway."  
The two girls head off one way towards Rose's locker, and the two boys turn and walk the other way, towards the sports hall.  
"So," Ten says pointedly, clearly holding off a snigger, "Clara, eh?"  
John raises an eyebrow at him, attempting to look confused rather than embarrassed. "What do you mean?" he asks innocently.  
Ten rolls his eyes. "You know very well what I mean. You've met her for a grand total of two hours, and already you can't keep your eyes off her."  
John shakes his head adamantly. "Just being nice," he assures his cousin.  
"Who's John taken a shine to?" a hearty, cheerful American voice says from right behind them. Both the Doctor and Ten freeze, turn around, and laugh at the sight of Jack Harkness, the incredibly handsome, incredibly funny and incredibly bi jock. And captain of the cheerleading team. Wearing his uniform.  
"Hey Captain," John mutters. "How was your day?"  
"Fine," Jack replies merrily, clapping a hand on the shoulder of each of his friends and steering them onward towards the hall. "But we're getting off topic, Little Johnny. Who's this you've taken so sudden a liking to? Unfortunately I gather it's not me, as you've had the incredible fortune to know me for _much _longer than two hours."  
John shrugs. "Nobody," he tells the two other boys, who still grin most evilly at him.  
"Clara Oswald, the new girl who sounds like she's from Lancashire," Ten translates.  
Jack raises an eyebrow and does a pirouette of glee. "Oh, her – yes, I saw you gaping at her today."  
"I was _not _gaping," John says hurriedly. "She's just _nice. _I don't like her the same way, say, Ten likes Rose."  
But Jack remains unconvinced – in fact, if anything, more certain. "Oh, _Johnny_, do we have to sing the special song?"  
The Doctor knits his eyebrows in confusing. "What special song?"  
"_John and Clara,_" Jack begins merrily, "_sitting in a -_"  
"NO YOU DO NOT NEED TO SING THE SONG, OK?" John says immediately. "You have never had to sing the song."  
"That's never stopped him, though," Ten points out.  
"But my song has magic powers," Jack assures them, pulling them in close to whisper happily. "It is _binding. _Which couples that I have 'sung the special song' about have broken up? Not Martha and Mickey, not Ten and not Rose…" Jack starts to list.  
"If I admit that I think she's very nice and pretty and a little bit perfect will you _shut up_?" John asks.  
Jack concedes his offer. "I can't give you that, sorry mate… but there's an opening for general silence, no rumour spreading, the odd attempted set up and several conspiratorial winks," he says. "And I'm losing out on this, fellas."  
"Take it," Ten advises. "It's as low as the Captain will go."  
"Too right," Jack says.  
"Alright, alright," John agrees.  
"Besides, the set-ups are actually pretty good…" Ten trails off.  
"Oh, yes – I do _love _setting y'all up! It's ever so fun. Now I've got John and Clara too, when to start, when to start…" Jack murmurs with a kind of evil, only-slightly-well-meaning glee.  
And while he'd never, ever admit it to _anyone, _John rather hopes the setting-up sort-of dates are going to start very soon.


	4. Chapter 3 - The Running Ramification

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing**

* * *

Rose's locker clangs shut.  
"Here we are," she says triumphantly, holding up her PE uniform. It's a dark blue, with the golden school logo of interlocking circles printed on the breast pocket as well as larger on the back. She hands it to her new friend.  
"Thanks," Clara replies, eyeing the clothing.  
"Change rooms are this way," Rose offers, before the other girl has to ask.

"Ten push-ups," Craig orders the boys.  
"Uh, Craig?" John asks tentatively, walking up to their large coach.  
"Yes, John?"  
"I have a friend of mine… she's new today… wants to maybe join the running team…" the Doctor begins.  
"Of course!" Craig booms cheerfully. "We're always looking for new runners in the girl's division. But she'll have to trial."  
"You've only got three members," the Doctor points out. "Since Jack quit to captain cheerleading and Amy went to New York."  
Craig shrugs. "That just means we look elite. Besides, if she really _can't _run, then it won't be fun for her anyway. Is that them now?"  
The Doctor whips around incredibly quickly and in a highly un-coordinated fashion. Approaching them across the green field are two figures, who become more detailed the closer they come. Rose is about a good half-head taller than Clara, and still in her regular uniform. The smaller girl is now wearing a HPE kit that's at least several sizes too big, and dammit if it isn't the most adorable thing the Doctor has ever seen in his entire life.  
"Hello," Rose smiles, then steps back slightly as if she's delivering Clara.  
"Hi," Clara mutters quietly and a bit self-consciously.  
The Doctor remembers that he can, after all, speak, and that Clara looks amazing and beautiful in a sort of cutely normal way really shouldn't inhibit his ability to talk. It _does, _but it shouldn't. "Right. Hi, Clara! This is Coach Craig. But we all just call him Craig cos he's an ex-student coach so he really doesn't count."  
"Oi. I get paid. I count," Craig butts in.  
"Right. Yeah," John finishes lamely, though he can't help but grin widely at Clara's amused smile.  
"Ok. So when slash where do I trial?" Clara asks.  
Craig thinks for a second. "Are you interested in sprints or cross country?"  
Clara shrugs. "Both. I have asthma, so I can't really do anything over four kilometres, but other than that, I'm generally fine."  
Craig ruffles his hair. "Well, you having asthma makes you a bit of a risk, so I think I'll just start you off on sprints. Join in for the warm ups, and then I'll get John and Ten to run trials with you while I train the others. They've been on the team since forever, so they know how it works just as good as I do."  
Clara nods quickly and retreats to the ranks of boys with the Doctor. Everyone is lined up, watching Craig intently.  
"Those push-ups never did get done, did they?" Craig mutters. "Right, twenty push ups, two laps, then we'll do stretches."  
The Doctor isn't quite sure what he expects of Clara – he supposes part of him thinks she'll fall behind a little. He'd drop back too, with her, of course, so she wouldn't feel bad. It's not him being sexist, which the Doctor is most certainly not (growing up with Amelia Pond it is impossible to develop any opinion other than women and men are very much equals), it's more that Clara doesn't seem to be a serious runner, and all of the boys here are.  
What John does _not _expect is for Clara to finish the push ups almost before he does. He normally only lightly jogs the warm-up, but he has to push himself into a practical run to keep up with Clara's slower pace. She wasn't kidding about being able to run. Even before, he didn't think she was the sort of girl to talk herself up, but now he's certain of it.

"Ok, Ten, John, if you just want to take Clara over to the track and do a few hundred metre times and stuff like that while I work with the guys…" Craig instructs.  
"Sure thing," the cousins reply simultaneously.  
The three begin to walk over to the sprints track that has been pressed and painted onto the oval grass. They are soon joined by Rose, who had previously been standing over on the sidelines with a couple of friends.  
"Clara, if you just want to hop on the start line," the Doctor offers awkwardly as Ten pulls out a stopwatch.  
"I've got that far," she laughs. "Plot-twist, you're going to tell me to run up and down the track, starting when Ten says 'go' and stopping when I make it all the way back?"  
John ruffles his own hair. "Not quite," he mutters indignantly. "_I _was going to say 'go'. I _like_ saying 'go'. If Ten gets the beepy stop watch, _I _get to say go."  
Clara laughs again, and John wonders if he's _actually _glowing, or it just feels like it. After another moment, everyone's ready, and the Doctor shouts, "_GO!_"  
Clara really is _very _fast. She just becomes this small brunette blur moving at a hundred miles an hour. He wonders if being so tiny is an advantage with running, because there's less of you to move, or a setback, because you don't have long legs.  
"Aaaaaand… _stop_," Ten mutters, clicking off the watch as Clara rockets back across the line and skids to a halt.  
"How'd I do?" Clara asks after a moment, her hands reaching up to retie her hair, as several strands have slipped free and are dancing around her face. She seems to buzz with energy despite being a little out of breath.  
"Really great," the Doctor assures her happily.  
"You beat Jack's personal best of all time, which he won't be happy about," Ten observes.  
"_Nonsense_!" the cheer captain announces from behind them. "Well done, Clara! Smiles all round, eh? You, beautiful, can beat my personal best any time you like." He swoops in and wraps an arm around Clara, whose expression is a mixture between confused, surprised and pleased.  
"Uh, hi, nice to meet you," Clara mutters as she's pulled into a hug by the famously friendly Jack Harkness.  
"Don't worry, dear, I'm gay as hell," he tells her, smoothing back his hair triumphantly as Clara giggles. "Though perhaps you could turn me back."  
"Stop it, Jack," Rose warns, though she's laughing. The blonde knows Jack means nothing by it (as he said, he was most obviously gay as hell – though a little bit in between sometimes) but John is fairly clueless in matters such as these and may think Jack is serious, which could result in some friction.  
"Ah, Rose!" Jack laughs, relinquishing Clara by very carefully and casually pushing her into John and grabbing the taller girl instead. "Where's your Union 'Jack' t-shirt then? I always thought it would suit me."  
Rose laughs, before playfully shoving the Captain away and leaning back into Ten instead.  
As Clara and the Doctor realise they're doing much the same thing as the couple, they quickly shift away from each other, though admittedly not very far.  
"Aw, Johnny, no one wants my hugs. I guess it's just you and me then, huh?" Jack pouts happily, his smile never once properly leaving his face as he canons into the Doctor with a bear hug.  
"No, please, no," the Doctor murmurs in a muffled way, almost completely crushed under Jack.  
The others, including Clara, who is start to feel more and more at home by the heartbeat, just watch and laugh, making no attempts to save him.

"Well congrats, Clara," Craig tells her at the end of training. "You're more than ready to join the girl's sprint team. You're even better than most of the guys, but unfortunately, rules and regulations prevent me from putting you in a team with the opposite gender. Look, I know it's early days, but you're easily the best girl we've got, and I _do _need someone – there's a High School league sprinting competition in Cardiff in just over a month, and we need to send a boy and girl representative of G.A.L.L.I.F.R.E.Y to run. It's free, and you get four days off school. I can get you the permission note by tomorrow. John Smith here will be going as our resident male champion. What do you say?"  
Clara shrugs. "Why not? I can live with missing four days of school. Even if it is in Cardiff."  
Craig nods happily. "You won't even be running the entire time, so you'll have plenty of time to look around the city. Just so long as you're over sixteen by then, we can let you roam around on your own."  
"I will be over sixteen by then," she assures him.  
John's standing beside her. "Cool," he says cheerfully as Craig walks away to help some boy who's got his head stuck under his knee (god knows how that happened). "Are you coming, Clara?"  
"Coming where?" she asks as they head back over to the group of what she supposes she can now call her friends.  
"Ice cream," John explains, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. "We always go for ice cream after training – there's this cheap little shop round the corner that has really awesome ice cream for like ninety p. And they're the only place I know that has Jammie Dodger and English Toffee ice cream, which is the best thing since fezzes."  
Clara laughs, and John's sure he's doing the glowing thing again. He's only known her for less than a day, but already he'd give anything to see her laugh and smile like that. "I can't," she tells him, and he feels his heart drop; he's been cheated out of an extra forty-five minutes with her.  
"Why not?"  
"I don't have any money," she explains awkwardly after a moment.  
The Doctor just smiles. "That's not a problem. I'll shout you."  
But Clara shakes her head adamantly. "Nope. I don't do debts. I'll pass on the ice cream."  
"What if you pay me back tomorrow?" the Doctor offers desperately. He couldn't care less about the money; ninety p seemed like a very small price to pay for a further three quarters of an hour in her company.  
Clara finally gives up and shrugs. "What the hell. It's only ice cream, it's not like anyone's waiting for me at home. Not anymore…" she trails off and a bit of the sassy, spunky Clara sparkle dies in her deep brown eyes.  
He's not sure what makes him do it. It's more out of a great dislike of seeing Clara even mildly sad than anything, he tells himself. But there is no denying that John Smith could spend a lot more time with an arm around Clara Oswald's shoulder as he does now to cheer her up.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED (y'all will see the ice cream hour, _I'll pick up from exactly where I left off_)


	5. Chapter 4 - The Ice Cream Invitation

**Hey,  
**apologies if this contains any typos and whatnot. my sister, who normally edits my stuff for things I miss while proofreading is out tonight, so I'll get her to check for mistakes (and fix em up) tomorrow. there shouldn't be too many, though.

**[APOLOGIES IN ADVANCE FOR ENVIRONMENTAL INACCURACIES – I'VE NEVER BEEN TO LONDON, SO SORRY TO IRK THOSE WHO LIVE THERE WITH FLAWS AND FAULTS IN DESCRIPTION; I'M MAKING IT ALL UP WITH THE HELP OF RECOUNTS, PICTURES AND FILMS. BUT, SEEING AS IT'S AN AU, I'M GOING TO SAY THIS IS A PARALLEL UNIVERSE WHERE THE LONDON TUBE IS EXACTLY AS I DESCRIBE. SO THERE]**

**A brief reminder: some people have asked, so I thought I'd let you know (I have mentioned/alluded to this several times); all the characters are in their final year of high school. (yeah I know Rose dropped out in Year 10 in the original series, but she stayed till the end of senior in my version cos she met Ten)**

"So, Clara," Rose says as they walk towards the small yet usually busy little store a few blocks away, "tell us about yourself."  
Clara, who is standing between John and the blonde, just shrugs. "Not that much to tell, really. I like running and reading and theatre and writing. And kids – I babysit a lot. I want to go travelling and see the world when I'm older. I used to live in Lancashire, Blackpool, but I moved down here with my dad when my mum died, because we have family in London," she says this last part very fast, as if she thinks that no-one will notice the words if they come quickly.  
"I'm sorry," Rose tells her. "My dad died when I was just a baby. I never knew him."  
A quiet settles on the group for a moment, before Clara asks. "What about you boys, then? Your parents all still around?" She tries to phrase it informally to keep the heaviness out of her voice.  
The Doctor shrugs. "Depends what you consider as 'around'. They're both alive. Neither of them is ever at home. They spend most of their time in Germany, working at their massive company, Cybus Industries. They bought me a flat here, all to myself – they're dead rich, but a kid isn't a long term investment you can sell on the stock exchange," John mutters, only sounding a little bitter. "It's pretty good though. I can do what I want. I mostly grew up at Ten's, though."  
Ten laughs. "It's true," he assures everyone. "He did. His own place is half full of bits and bobs anyway - for tinkering with. You're up to your ears in inventions, Doctor. That's how he got the name. When he was little, if you broke something, he'd be able to fix it – kettles and coffee cups and toasters. You name it. And my parents brought him up on a steady supply of board games and tea and hearth rugs and Jammie Dodgers."  
"Oi," John mutters, but everyone grins because they know Ten's right.  
"Well, since you're clearly all wondering," Jack sings, tactfully breaking the darker mood with the sheer force of his personality, "my Dad's Captain America and my mom's Batwoman. It was an interesting day at Marvel comics, let me tell you."  
In perfect sync, the entire group rolls their eyes. "Your dad is not Captain America," Rose giggles.  
"He so is – I'm American."  
"So are a couple of other hundred million people."  
"He's a fairly busy guy. _'Jack, I am your father'._"  
"Yeah – but not in that sense, Jack. He's _not_ your father."  
"Ok, but no-one's denying that Batwoman is my mother…"

"One Jammie Dodger ice cream, please," the Doctor adds onto the end of their long order. The young man behind the counter nods happily, ducking down to grab two scoops of said flavour and ram them into a waffle cone. "What do you want, Clara?" John asks, turning to the small brunette.  
Thinking, she bites her lip carefully. John wonders if there's some way he can pause time right here and just gaze at her for a bit, she looks so cute and perfect in every way. "I don't know. What's the best? You pick. They all sound pretty good."  
The Doctor nods. "Ok, then. Another Jammie Dodger one, please," he says.  
Rose rolls her eyes.  
"What?" John mutters. "They're nice."  
Several minutes later, the five teens file back out onto the street. "Where to now?" Jack asks cheerfully.  
Rose shrugs. "Well, it's nearly quarter past five, we should probably all head home after we've eaten these. I know John's got to catch the Tube, so you can't miss that, I'm walking back to the Powell Estate before it gets dark and Ten's getting picked up by his mum back at school in ten minutes. Jack?"  
Jack shrugs. "Well, I have no particular interest in going home – nothing to do. I could go see a movie, I could walk around, get a pizza… go to a bar…"  
"You're not legally old enough," Ten points out.  
"But I'm so fun they let me in anyway," Jack reminds him jokingly. "What about you, Clara? Fancy coming?"  
She laughs, shaking his head. "Nah, I'm catching the Tube too."  
John's heart skips happily. If luck is leaning towards him, she'll be catching one in the same direction as he is. Heck, if luck is practically squashing him, she'll live next door.  
Though admittedly, since he lives in a unit, this could be difficult. He'll settle for nearby, though.  
John glances across at Clara and grins. "How's the ice cream?" he asks.  
She returns his grin, saying, "It's not a flavour I would have thought of, but it's very nice. It's good with the caramel in it, too."  
John smiles triumphantly at Rose. "See?" he tell his cousin's girlfriend, "people other than me _do _like it."  
Rose shrugs at him. "I never said they didn't – it must have some buyers, else it wouldn't be a flavour. I just said _I_ wouldn't eat it."  
John smirks wider. "I believe your exact words were '_I wouldn't eat that for a trip to the moon'_ – that's quite high modality for such a simply dislike."  
"I did not say that," Rose assures him.  
"You did, actually," Ten adds, still laughing at some joke Jack had told him seconds before. "I remember."  
Rose shoves his shoulder gently. "You're not allowed to remember things like that if it's not helpful."  
"Right, sorry," Ten mutters, before changing tack completely and turning to John, "Are you sure, Doctor? I don't recall those words leaving Rose's mouth."  
"Better," Rose says as he turns innocently to get her approval while Clara laughs at him.  
John shakes his head happily as he looks around at them all. It's funny; if you'd asked the Doctor yesterday if their group felt incomplete, he would've said quite firmly that it was absolutely perfect just the way it was, needing no more and no fewer. But Clara just seemed to fit in perfectly, filling a gap he never knew there'd been. Now, after knowing her only a day, he was reluctant to imagine the gathering without her.

After they've all finished and said their farewells, the group breaks apart – Ten drifts back to the school, Jack returns to the corner shop to buy himself some dinner, Rose heads towards the Powell Estate and Clara and John make their way slowly towards the Tube.  
"So," John says, casting around for something to talk about as they walk together, "how was G.A.L.L.I.F.R.E.Y for you, then? Not unbearably horrible?"  
Clara smiles slightly. "It's fine. It's good, actually. A lot bigger than my other school – there were only fourteen kids in my class. Bit of a busy day, though."  
John nods his head emphatically. "Oh, yeah. No, we normally don't get our principal busted for child abuse. That is most definitely not a daily occurrence."  
"I figured," Clara observes, and they continue in silence for a few metres. John smiles as he realises it's not one of those horrible, awkward silences that you tend to have with relative strangers – both conversation participants scrabbling hopelessly for something to say; but rather just a warm kind of quiet, in which neither person desperately feels the need for something to be talked about.  
"That excursion for the Cold War unit should be interesting. Ten, Rose, Mickey, Amy and I went to that museum once, one summer," John tells her finally.  
Clara smirks up at him (she's a good three quarters of a head shorter than he is). "How was it?"  
He shrugs. "Well, the time we went was a little different from normal, I should imagine. The company that owns the place also has a museum for art history, and the people had gotten some of the new exhibits mixed up. One of the rooms in the nautical museum ended up having Van Gogh paintings, and the other was dedicated to the life and times of Madame de Pompadour. Rose, Ten and Mickey spent most of their time at that one, but Amy and I looked at the Van Gogh exhibit. Until they came back and took it away."  
Clara laughs. "I bet they were a bit embarrassed. Madame de Pompadour and Van Gogh in a nautical museum. So I guess technically you _haven't _been before, as you've never looked at any of their marine stuff."  
He shrugs. "Amy and I did check it out briefly, but the Van Gogh stuff was more interesting at the time."  
"Amy – who was she?" Clara asks tentatively, as if wondering if this is an ok subject to broach.  
"She and Rory have been my best friends since Year 8. But they both packed off to New York on a study exchange this year. I still get to, you know, Skype them and stuff, but I don't see them anymore, obviously. I might fly over there in the mid-semester break, though," the Doctor contemplates the idea. He'd like to see New York, and his parents provide him with a very large allowance each month to cover food and expenses and the rates – he's always got plenty left over to spend, though he nearly always saves it. Now, he's definitely got more than enough to have a holiday in America.  
"I'm going to go to America, one day," Clara decides. "It's on my travel list. I want to see Chicago, New York, Manhattan… and South America, too – I bet it's all really different."  
John nods. "Yeah. Are you planning to take a gap year after school and go travel?"  
She shakes her head, however. "Nah. I'll go to Uni. But I'll travel during the holidays – I've been saving for years, you know, babysitting and whatnot. What about you?"  
The Doctor shrugs. "Probably the same," he says. "I can really do whatever I want – I've already got offers of scholarships to universities that said they'll still take me anywhere between now and in three years' time, so I could afford a gap if I wanted one. I don't know."  
They continue the conversation of what they intend to do after school (Clara says she wants to teach children; John insists he isn't sure but might end up doing a doctorate in anything he wants or working in IT, he's very flexible – highly intelligent but not desperate for a large income) all the way to the station.  
"Which one you catching?" John asks Clara, indicating the train timetable.  
After a second, she shrugs awkwardly. "I… I don't _actually _know, I only moved in yesterday. This is only my first month in London – I can use the Tube well enough once I'm actually _on_ it, but right now I actually only know _where _ have to be, not exactly _how _to get there…"  
"Whereabouts do you have to gp?" John enquires, not wanting to freak her out but also eager to help.  
Clara pulls a white slip of paper out of her jacket pocket. She reads it through once, as though checking if her memory of the address is correct, and hesitates slightly before passing it to John.  
"Ah, well, you're all sorted," he tells her cheerfully, passing the paper fragment back, where Clara's basic home details are written in small, neat words.  
"How so?" she asks quizzically, raising an eyebrow.  
"You live about two blocks away from me – and Amy used to live on that same street. I'll get you there," he assures her. "It's just this train coming. Are you right with getting home from the station?"  
Clara chews her lip for half a moment. "Probably. Almost definitely. So long as the lamp posts work and it isn't dark, I should be able to use the landmarks I've made up. I'll be fine."  
He nods a little doubtfully, and they continue talking.  
It's only a little after knock-off time, so the Tube is fairly packed; and though luckily this line isn't overly popular, neither of them gets to sit down the entire journey.  
By the time they reach the station, John feels as if he's known Clara for years. It's very strange: he doesn't normally make friends _too _fast – he can when he wants to, but sometimes he prefers to simply keep to himself. Even though he knows it's true, he still finds it hard to believe he only met Clara today.  
Despite the fact she insists she knows the way from the Tube to her house, he's a little doubtful and ends up walking her to her street. It's by no means the fastest route from the station to his flat, but it is now very clearly the best.  
"Well, see you tomorrow," Clara says when they reach her corner, giving him a very-much-worth-the-extra-hundred-metres-he-now-ha s-to-walk smile and disappearing down the road.  
John Smith then turns on his heel and bounces happily along the sidewalk, tripping over someone's cat at one point but other than that, his slightly longer than usual journey home passes without incident.  
The lift dings as he arrives at his floor – the very tip-top of the rather posh, very modern apartment building. Still grinning to himself, he pushes open his deep blue door. Perhaps, he thinks, luck is very nearly squashing him after all.

**11 points to you if you've been getting my Matt 'n' Jenna references in all the chapters.**

**please feel free to review if you've read! :) every comment, good or bad, is appreciated**


	6. Chapter 5 - The Sequestration in the Sub

**I know that I have A LOT of inaccuracies in regards to the way their English school is run, but this owing to my never having been to or met anyone who has attended one. There are 2 options to deal with this problem:

1. Those of you who attend British schools notify me via ask/reviews (depending on what site you read from) UNLESS it affects my plot line (in this case, I will thank you kindly but regrettably you will be obliged to hate me quietly as I will favour my little plots over precise scholarly accuracy)

2. I set the AU in Australia, where I am and therefore the school system description will be 97.5% (I'm told uneven, decimal numbers make your statistics seem more legit) correct. I considered this when I started writing, as I am VERY aware of how many inaccuracies of all kinds have and will be caused by my ignorance. However, I reasoned that more complaints and annoyance would be caused by a change of nationality (which everyone would notice) as opposed to some faults in school systems (which only the Brits would).

But, I hear you say, why don't you research London schools?

The answer: I write this for fun, and research would turn it into a school assignment. Furthermore, it is difficult to find an accurate and detailed description of British school life that is readable. It's not that I don't research out of a lack of respect for you all or a disregard for your enjoyment. Feel free to write to me and tell me how English schools are run so it irritates you no further. But, as it is, I feel these errors may be glossed over, rather like a small stone in the shoe, and not detract tooooooo much from your overall enjoyment of the series.

Note: as an Australian, I can understand the annoyance of inaccuracies in books and so forth when it comes to people in general and so forth; we are constantly victims portrayed as "G'day mate she'll be apples paint me pink yellow and blue, it's a cockatoo" and crap, which is grit your teeth frustrating as I've never actually met anyone who talks like that.

Any further complaints, please contact me. Otherwise, enjoy your chapter**

* * *

The next morning, the Doctor decides to leave his flat a little earlier than is strictly necessary. Or even social acceptable. It's only around seven o'clock, and school doesn't start until nine. He doesn't have any specific goal in mind, he just likes being up early.

The wind dances through his hair on the crisp, chill London morning, whispering around the daunting grey buildings that form the city. Thankfully, however, his quiff reminds carelessly perfect, as if even Mother Nature does not wish to ruin it.

John tilts his head to the left slightly as he hears a dog barking. Dogs aren't overly common here, as generally speaking yards are too crowded and small. But nevertheless the small yip prevails; it obviously issues from a smaller breed. Then, suddenly, the noise stops.

Frowning, John heads towards the former source of the sound, a little afraid the creature might have been hit by a car or something.

It hasn't though.

The little brown dog is radiating happiness as it is scratched behind the ears by Clara Oswald, who is crouching down beside it. "Who do you belong to, mister?" she asks the dog softly, her fingers searching around the dog's neck for a name tag.

John's not sure what he should do. He knows who owns the dog, after all, and he also knows it doesn't have a tag. But he doesn't want to freak Clara out by running into her too often within a short amount of time, even if it is completely accidental. Then again, it'll probably seem worse if she looks up and sees him either staring at her or very pointedly walking away.

So John takes a deep breath and walks over, cautiously kneeling down beside Clara and the dog.

"Oh, hey," she says to him, totally unbothered. He relaxes. "He yours?" she asks.

"Nah," the Doctor tells her. "He's called Fiddle, and he belongs to old Mrs Wotherspun, a few blocks away. He escapes all the time."

Clara picks up the little brown puppy, which gazes at her happily with big, round, chocolate eyes. "We should probably take Fiddle back, then – Mrs Wotherspun will probably be very worried," she notes.

John nods, more than slightly happy she said 'we' rather than 'I'. "We'll have to be quick, though," the Doctor explains. "If you bring one of her pets back, Mrs Wotherspun makes you stay for tea and biscuits."

"Well, we're hardly going to be late, it's only seven o'clock," Clara laughs, and the two of them set off together, with John offering to carry the puppy – they don't want to risk it running off again, and they don't have a lead.

As they walk, Clara and John talk mostly about school – about the excursion for their Cold War unit that day, the running team, their English class. Again, the Doctor wonders why he finds it so easy to talk to her – he's literally only known her about eight hours. And yet, he feels as if he's met her before, or even known her all his life.

As predicted, Mrs Wotherspun does enforce her thankfulness protocol of compulsory tea and cookies, though as she's spent the last fifty-five years being a mother then a grandparent, the old woman has rather perfected the art of baking and hot beverage brewing. The Doctor, who knows Mrs Wotherspun really quite well (he's known her ever since even before he moved into his flat a few blocks away, and she has a cheerful habit of becoming a surrogate grandmother to just about anyone with manners) introduces her to Clara, who in turn presents Fiddle back to his owner. This immediately earns Clara the elderly lady's utmost respect.

They pass a happy thirty minutes at the Wotherspun home (Mr Wotherspun is on a fishing trip in Blackpool at present) before excusing themselves and heading on their way.

"Where exactly do we have to go for the bus to the excursion?" Clara asks John as they board their train at the Tube.

"Around the back of the gym at nine fifteen," the Doctor reads off of his excursion form.

"Right," Clara replies happily, clearing looking forward to the outing. After a moment's pause, she bumps her shoulder against his, smirking, and says, "Hopefully you won't get lost this time, and end up in a Van Gogh exhibit again."

He smiles back. "I won't get lost if I stick with you," he responds, before wincing as he realises he uttered that out loud, and not just in his head as he intended.

Clara just laughs innocently, though, telling him, "Probably not. Maybe. I hate getting lost, though – I used to be really terrified of it."

"Oh?" the Doctor confirms, and she nods. "I wouldn't have pinned you as being scared of anything."

Clara smiles again. "What about you? Got any phobias?"

He shakes his head. "Nope. I quite like getting lost – I always find interesting places. I suppose I have a lot of rational fears – for example, I wouldn't like to be eaten alive by giant carnivorous predatory chickens…"

This earns him another laugh. John thinks that maybe if he can get Clara to laugh enough times, he can memorise the sound and bottle it away in his head to be listened to on a sad, rainy day. Or any day.

Preferably every day.

"Head count," Madame Vastra announces once everyone's taken their pre-allocated seats on the hired charter bus to the museum. "Everyone sit still. No holding up hats to cover for your friends. I will know." Everyone believes her.

Most of her words go right over John's head, however, as he sits there happily, feeling as if he is swimming in luck. The seating arrangement organised by the teacher means that he is sitting next to Clara and only Clara for the next two and a half hours. He figures Vastra probably did this on purpose in order to put the 'new girl' beside someone she was familiar with, but he doubts the teacher knew the favour she was paying him, as well.

John and Clara talk and talk and talk. It's funny – after half an hour or so, the Doctor usually tires of talking to people about normal things, but not with her. He could listen to her chat probably forever, about everything and nothing. He wants to know all the little things about her. It scares John, a little – he's never cared about someone so much so quickly before. Perhaps it doesn't scare him as much as it should.

As they gabble away, he learns that Clara can speak a bit of French and even less Spanish, though she wishes she knew more, but the school doesn't offer beginner courses to senior students.

"I could teach you a bit more, sometime, if you like," John mutters, almost blushing, despite the normalcy of the situation. "I'm fluent in French, English, Italian and Spanish, and I know a tiny bit of Chinese and can get by with my German."

She sort of just stares at him for a moment. "Wow," Clara breathes. "Well, on my list of talents, apart from being able to babysit small children – which is really more of a skill – I can spectacularly murder an pastry or baked good placed in front of me through good intentions. And that's about it."

"No, it's not," John counters hurriedly. "You're good with dogs, and running, and you're very nice and very p-" is as far as he gets before he hastily stops himself.

Apparently, though, thankfully, Clara doesn't hear his last addition. "Oh," she murmurs, as if remembering something. "I've got the money to pay you back for yesterday." She routes around in her bag for a moment before pulling out the change.

John sighs to himself. He'd been secretly hoping she'd forget – ninety p means nothing to him, and he doesn't want to inconvenience Clara. He has the suspicion that money is a little harder to come by for her than him.

"Thanks," he replies, managing not to sound half-hearted. He'll slip it back in her bag, of course, later – into some small pocket for her to stumble across in a week's time and deem misplaced change.

"And I would like to," Clara adds.

It doesn't click for him. "What?" he asks.

She doesn't miss a beat. "Learn some French or something off you," she clarifies.

"Oh right," he says, feeling like an idiot, but glowing at the same time.

Over the next two hours, both teenagers learn a fair bit about each other.

Clara finds out John's favourite colour is a very specific sort of blue; that he has a motorbike and automobile license and his parents are shipping over an old-fashioned sort of motorbike to him from Germany (he seems quite excited about this); that he only likes to sleep for four hours or less; that he can cook, name all the elements and tell you all the English kings and queens in the right order (well, at least, as many as the history books remember).

John discovers that Clara babysits the two children of a family called the Maitlands; that she likes baking but hasn't been able to make a real soufflé since her mum died; that her father doesn't like the government but does like the Rolling Stones; that she is trying to get a part time job at the café near her house and that she wants to major in English at university.

Clara makes him listen to three songs on her iPod: two of which he's never heard but likes both of them very much, and another he already knows but enjoys anyway. John fixes her calculator with his 'sonic screwdriver' – he even lets her examine it (he doesn't tell her so, but normally other people aren't even allowed to touch it).

After nearly a whole minute of silence, Clara turns to him from looking out the window, her hair chasing after her head in a beautiful whirlwind, or at least it seems so to him. As she bites her lip cheekily, he gives himself a moment to appreciate how perfect she is, before directing his attention to the actual words coming out of his mouth.

"Truth or dare?"

John almost tells her that he doesn't like to play this game, he's almost on the verge of saying he won't play, just like he tells everyone else. "Truth," he says, after a moment, because she's Clara and he is really going to have a hard time ever saying no to her.

She quirks an eyebrow, smirking. But, apparently, she can't think of a good enough one that isn't too personal (she's only known him a day). Not that John would have minded, no matter what she had asked him. "Have you ever… failed a subject?"

"I failed history once."

"What?" Clara asks, shocked. "But you're good at it!"

"I'm brilliant at it," he confirms, abandoning modesty, "I can tell you a lot of largely useless facts about most historical events. But sometimes I have trouble remembering which order they go in. The module exam was to sequence a timeline. I bombed out a bit. A lot."

She doesn't laugh at him, put she does grin. "Ok. Your turn."

"Are you afraid of the dark?"

"You have to ask 'truth or dare' first. You can't just assume I want a 'truth'," Clara reminds him.

John rolls his eyes. "What kind of dare can you even do on a bus, anyway?"

"All sorts. Ask."

"Fine. Truth or dare, Clara?"

"Dare," she replies, teasing him. If he'd asked up front, she would've picked truth, of course.

"Ok…" he tries to think of one, racking his brains. "Beat me at a staring contest."

She twists her lips. "I'm not sure if that's a proper one, but ok. I'll let you off this once because we're in a confined space."

"Ready… set… go!" John says. He's really very good at these. Nothing can throw him off. But Clara's good too. He watches the way her brown eyes seem to burn with a russet-coloured forest fire, shifting and changing and searing and melting and freezing. Mesmerizingly beautiful. After a moment, he notices her smirking, and wonders if his expression betrays him as too fascinated. Embarrassed, he blinks and looks away.

"Ha! I win," Clara declares victoriously.

"But that's cheating!" he says, without thinking.

"Oh? How so?"

John pauses for a moment. "That really wasn't cheating, was it?"

"Nope."

"Ah. Ok, then. You do win." John knows it's really not fair to say her being too pretty is underhand in a contest such as this. It's not something she can help, she's just being Clara.

She opens her mouth to ask him another question, but at that moment, the bus pulls over outside the museum. John can't believe it's been a whole two and a half hours. He feels a bit ripped off; normally bus rides like this seem to last several eons and leave him fidgeting impatiently in his seat, not wishing the speed limit had been lower and the traffic had been worse. Madame Vastra instructs them to remain silent while she reads out the partner groups they are supposed to stay in (apparently teenagers cannot be trusted alone with expensive exhibits).

Clara Oswald and John Smith, she reads towards the end.

John smiles. He thinks today will be a very good day.

Vastra proceeds to tell them that they are to fill out the work booklets they have been given, and to meet back with the rest of the group at two thirty to return to school.

"You aren't children," she reminds them, her gaze almost reptilian. "And as such, I expect you to take care of yourself. Eat when you need to, I'm not organising lunch for you all – you're nearly adults. Just don't break anything."

The wave of students forces them out of a bus, like a machine, churning John up and spitting him out the exit.

He manages to fight his way out of the crowd as the cold air bites at him. The Doctor spins around, trying to catch sight of Clara, whom he was separated from by the stream of history students.

Eventually, someone taps his elbow.

He whirls round. "Clara. Hello. Where should we go first?" he blurts.

She smirks at him, tucking a loose lock of her russet coloured hair behind her ear. "You're the expert, mister."

"Um, well..." he racks his brains, but Clara fiddling with her hair is highly distracting. Fine. Clara's distracting, full stop. John quickly glances at the first activity on the worksheet. "Uh - nuclear weapon sketches?"

But Clara's shaking her head. "Nah," she disagrees, "everyone will go to that exhibit cos it's number one; it'll be too crowded. Lets do the last one first."

"Right. 1983 Soviet Sub walk-in 'experience' exhibit. And we can go to some of the other smaller ones on the way."

It takes him until about the third exhibit they take notes from on the way to the Sub to realise he's really none the wiser about anything since he came. This is chiefly because he spends more time inadvertently glancing at Clara than at the things on display.

The museum has an actual, salvaged 1983 Russian Sub floating in a pool tank. Persons over 15 years of age only are permitted entry. There's no queue.

Clara and the Doctor will be the only ones on board, apart from some role-player staff distributed throughout the Sub to add to the experience.

The ticket man holds the entry open for Clara, who is followed down into the ship by John. The door is sealed behind them.

The Sub is a little cramped but economically proportioned and fascinating to look at. John also takes note of the way curiosity make Clara's eyes burn so much brighter; in turn making her even more beautiful.

They're only down there exploring for about ten minutes when the official museum evacuation alarm sounds. As the noise permeates the metal chamber the two teens stand in, Clara says, "That's not part of the exhibit, is it?"

"No," John begins, before he's over ridden by an announcement on the loudspeaker.

The museum curator informs all patrons that a dangerous Pentagon prisoner has somehow escaped, a Mr Skaldak, who has apparently entered the museum. "No one is sure why," the announcement reads. "We advise patrons to stay in large groups and evacuate in a calm and collected manner. Mr Skaldak, while unarmed, is highly dangerous. DO NOT approach the West Wing. As far as security can determine, the prisoner is making his way to the Russian Sub Experience. Security are attempting to stop him. Please evacuate now."

There is a moment of silence between them. "Clara, that's us," John starts.

The clanging sound of the Sub entry being forced violently open and locked shut again issues from above.

"And what's the betting that's him?" Clara whispers back.

"Maybe. We can't be sure. Ok - um, stay calm," he advises.

"I wasn't panicking, I'm not ten," Clara shoots back.

"Never said you were. Sorry. Ok. Well, at least, the top way is out, so what do you want to do?"

Clara thinks for a moment. "Well, we don't know the Sub, so there's not guarantee we'd be able to easily find a way out. Would it be better just to hide, and hope security comes and finds him? I mean, I'm all for being brave and stuff, but he is a fully grown man and murderer, and we're teenagers."

"Alright. Good. Lets go down, if he's up," John suggests.

She nods in agreement, so they head off, working their way down a narrow set of stairs just as the lights flicker out.

The two swear in unison. John immediately reaches out, trying to locate Clara. After a moment, he touches her shoulder, then finds and grabs her hand.

"You ok? You never did answer if you were afraid of the dark." John says softly.

"I'm fine with the dark," she responds, equally quietly. "Not fussed on tight spaces."

"Why?"

"I always feel cramped, and like I'm going to run out of air. And cos I'm asthmatic..."

"Right. Of course. Well, I've got the light from my screwdriver, so we won't be in complete darkness," John offers, pulling out his Sonic and flicking on the pulsating green light.

They manage to find their way down to the bottom of the Sub, and into a small, hidden alcove just big enough for the two of them. The Doctor and Clara slide in, just as a scream issues from above.

"That's odd," John murmurs, and he feels Clara shift next to him.

"How so? He's a killer, isn't he?" Clara says, the touch of fear that seeps into her voice making him squeeze her hand tighter. John doesn't normally get scared of things. He just doesn't.

"No, it is odd. I read about Skaldak in the paper when I was a little kid - he's been in prison for twenty years, no parole, but his trial was supposed to be reviewed today. See, thing is, Skaldak was famous for the way he'd kill his victims - he'd capture them, and then freeze them in tubs of ice, the hypothermia getting to them in the end. It earned him the press nickname 'the Ice Warrior'. But I don't think he ever maimed up front." John explains; by rights, he reasons, there shouldn't be screaming.

A thunder of footsteps echoes down the stairs to the chamber they're in.

"Turn the light out," Clara urges. It could be a crew member, but it could be Skaldak, too. He obeys.

A hissing, rushing sound suddenly begins to fill the air around him. It takes him a few moments, but eventually John realises. "We're leaking."

"As in gas leak or water? I can't tell, it just sounds like rushing to me," Clara responds.

"Water. Water leak."

After another moment, cold liquid begins to seep towards them. "We need to get out," Clara says.

Together, they head towards the stairs. Another scream and a thud issues from above.

"John?" Clara mutters.

"Yeah?"

"Ok, I'll admit, I'm scared now."

"Don't be. I won't let anything hurt you."

She laughs a little. "You've only known me two days, John. I don't expect you to do a thing for me."

That's the thing, though. He HAS only known her two days, and yet he would do ANYTHING for her. It probably should scare him that he could become so attached to someone so fast, but it doesn't.

So he just grips her hand tighter and whispers, "Hey. I meant what I said. Promise."

The lights flicker back on as they reach the top of the stairs. The water is rushing in faster than ever behind them.

They round a corner. The body of a crew member lies on the floor.

"Oh my god," Clara murmurs.

John ducks down to the body, feeling for a pulse. "He's alive," the Doctor announces. "But unconscious. We can't leave him here, the water will get to him."

John's really much stronger than he looks (and he even looks fairly strong, the definition of the muscles on his biceps clearly visible even when he's not straining), and so he doesn't have a problem lifting the man, who's really quite weedy.

He hoists him over one shoulder, ignoring Clara's offers to assist - she's really too small to be of any real help.

"Come on," he says, and they turn the corner to come face to face with Mr Skaldak.

John's first thought is that he looks like Sirius Black, which is a silly notion really. Skaldak is built like a bear, but with oddly thin fingers and a brutish head coated in limp, lank hair. Beady black eyes stare at the Doctor as Skaldak draws a knife he has acquired somehow.

Behind the killer, John can see four men in security uniforms creeping up, but they won't be with Skaldak fast enough.

The alleged murderer raises his knife on John, who, weighed down by the unconscious crew member, can't get away. The Doctor doesn't even blink as the Ice Warrior leers at him.

Without any warning, Clara steps between them.

Skaldak's knife halts in its path. "Mary?" he murmurs, confused. Clara gazes back at him, equally puzzled, and watches the bear-like man as he lets the dagger clatter to the floor.

Then the security guards crash into him, knocking him to the ground. After a moment, when it appears the guards have the situation under control, John sets down the crewman on the floor and grabs Clara's hand.

"What?" She mutters, watching the men scrabble around them, mesmerised.

"We have to leave," John explains. "If we don't, they'll find us and question us and there'll be all sorts of problems."

"...ok..."

So he tugs her past the guards and they find their way back through the empty museum to Madame Vastra, who had been frantically looking for them.

"It's ok, M'am, we were just caught in the West Wing. We're fine," John assures her.

That afternoon, on the Tube ride home, Clara and the Doctor agree never to speak of their almost-encounter with Skaldak, as it would just end up being horrible and complicated.

"Who's Mary?" Clara asks finally.

"Who?"

"Skaldak stopped when he saw me. Called me Mary. Why?"

"Oh. As best as I can remember, Mary was Skaldak's daughter. She died when she was fifteen, back in 1994. Come to think of it, you do look quite a lot like her. I guess he's mad and got confused."

Clara nods. "He was a bit scary, but mostly sad."

"What made you do it?" John says, almost against his will.

"Do what, John?"

"Get in front of me. Why?"

She shrugs. "I guess there was two if you - John Smith and the unconscious crew member. But only one me. And Skaldak would only have time to get to one of us before the guards reached him. Better one than two, right? Maybe it was instinct, or maybe I'm just stupid. Can we just forget about this, please? It was so quick it already feels like a bizarre kind of dream."

"Ok," John agrees. But nevertheless, he impulsively wraps her in a one armed hug. "Thanks, though."

"Don't mention it," she replies, and means it.

That afternoon, when he's home by himself, John reflects that several good things did come of today. A lot of them seem to involve Clara. Holding her hand, sort of hugging her, talking to her... Fine, all if them involve her.

That should make him frown, he supposes, but it just makes him grin a little.


	7. Chapter 6 - The Amy Advice

**Hey  
Sorry for the delay I accidentally deleted this chapter and had to re-write it. which took forever so you'd better appreciate it. anyway thank you for being patient and not giving up on me.**

* * *

It's been a whole month and a half, John realises one day, since he met Clara. Or Clara met him. However you want to look at it.

They've very quickly become best friends - perhaps there are some things, like meeting murderers, that you cannot do together and not come out the other side of quite close.

He's still never invited Clara to his flat, though (despite the urging of Jack and Rose on two separate occasions), for a number of reasons. One being that his unit is really quite messy. That's the only reason he has given his two friends, but not the only one in existence.

Things turn around that Monday, though; something which John is quite grateful for.

"Get into partners for your poetry assignment," Miss Ebony instructs.

Clara and John don't even bother looking at each other; a silent agreement issues between them.

After their English teacher reviews the guidelines of their task, she suggests, "Exchange phone numbers and emails within your group, please. I will not have 'we couldn't meet up' as an excuse for not completing the work. As this is a quick project before we move on to our next unit, it will be due on Friday, so I recommend meeting up outside of school at least twice in the next few days."

As the bell rings for the end of class, Clara quickly scribbles down a series of digits onto a shard of paper, and stuffs it in John's hand.

"That's my number. What if we work after running training today? My dad's in Blackpool on business until Friday, so I don't have to be home on time," Clara tells him. He nods happily in response. "I've got Home Ec now, so I better run," she says, giving him a quick smile and dashing out of the room.

Grinning to himself, John loads his things into his bag, clutching the paper with Clara's number like a life raft.

After running that day, Clara and the Doctor skip the group's customary post-training ice cream session in order to complete their poetry assignment. John has kept very quiet about the recent acquisition of his German motorbike all day (it had arrived for him on Sunday) wanting to spring it on Clara by simply showing her. He'd driven it to school today (he comes early on Mondays to play trumpet for the school marching band); but Clara had caught the Tube later, as was her custom.

Clara grins when she catches sight of his bike (she can immediately tell it's his - who else would have the number plate S0NIC11?), and smiles even wider when he offers her his spare helmet. She doesn't seem hesitant or anxious or reluctant, which is a great relief.

John seats himself comfortably behind the handlebars and Clara climbs on after him, her arms slipping around his waist to slot together in the middle. He glows a little as they drive away.

Ten, Rose and Jack watch their friends drive off from about thirty metres away, each smirking.

"Is it just me," Jack says, "or dies EVERYONE but them know they are totally dating?"

The general consensus deems the Captain correct.

John parks the motorbike in his designated parking spot under the flat block, jerking off his helmet. Miraculously, his quiff survives. Clara, however, is not so lucky, with her helmet dragging most of her hair from her ponytail, flicking some of it into her eyes. Impulsively, John reaches out and gently tucks it behind her ear. Once he realises what he's doing, though, he quickly turns away, and begins to make a beeline for the lift. Clara just smiles at him for a moment before following.

The elevator doors ding cheerfully open to reveal a large blue door.

John pushes it open to show his apartment, a modern looking building with stark white walls and lots of glass and curves and sharp angles, rather too big for just one person. He'd cleaned it yesterday, a much-needed exercise, so now everything is shining and in its correct place.

"This is a bit..." Clara begins, frowning a little as she tries to locate the right word.

"Posh?" John suggests, closing the door behind them as they walk into the living room. "Like I said, my parents are really sort of very rich. I think they see a nice place as an excellent trade-off for human company."

"Hey," Clara mutters, nudging him with her shoulder. "You do have human company."

"I know. Here, I'll give you a tour," John offers.

He takes her round the kitchen, living room, study, bathroom, spare bedroom and library lash tv room. The Doctor manages to neatly miss his bedroom (which is still fairly messy) and his inventing room (which suffers the same affliction).

Later, the two of them sit at the polished, slate kitchen counter, their books spread out around them. John gets up to organise something to eat. There are twelve packets of Jammie Dodgers in the cupboard ; he manages to retrieve one without allowing Clara to see the stockpile within. He also procures a bottle of red lemonade (which, in his opinion, is far cooler than the pink variety) and pours them each a glass.

While Clara pulls open her notebook, he boots up his laptop, feeling slightly strange having Clara just sitting there, beside him at his house. He's not sure if it's strange because it seems so natural to have her there, or because he desperately wants to do something, though he isn't sure what. It's very confusing.

Half and hour later, they've established the theme they want and the style they're going to use. Technically this groundwork should have taken them half the time, but they keep getting sidetracked.

At 5:15, the Doctor's computer bleeps, proclaiming an incoming call.

"Sorry," John mutters to Clara, "but its Amy, in New York. She has to go out of her way to call across the time zones, so it'd be unfair to ignore it."

"Of course," Clara says immediately, unperturbed. "Uh - do you want me to leave? I can go work in the sitting room, or just leave full stop..."

"No, stay. Please stay," John replies hurriedly.

"But I don't... I don't know her."

"That won't bother Amy. At all. I'll introduce you. You'll be fine."

"...ok..." Clara responds, a little doubtfully.

John clicks the Skype answer button, and Amelia Pond's pale face framed with starkly contrasting red hair fills the screen.

"Hey!" she calls, and while the slight crackle that comes from video contact fractures the sound, her Scottish accent is clear.

"Hi, Moonface," John replies happily.

"Oi."

He just laughs. It's good to talk to her again, they haven't in weeks.

"Who's that?" Amy asks, nodding to Clara and giving her a wave. "I don't think we've met."

Clara shakes her head, smiling a little. "We haven't."

"Amy, this is Clara," John interrupts, feeling like he should do the introducing as they're both his friends. Even if he is fully aware he is almost utterly obsolete in such social interactions. "Clara, this is Amy."

"I'd got that far," Clara says, smirking.

"I think you're supposed to say 'thanks, John. Pleased to meet you, Amy'," the Doctor mutters.

"No, she's right," the ginger contributes. "We'd both got that far."

"How did you know she was Clara, though? You couldn't have," John counters triumphantly, "so that was a tiny little bit necessary."

Amy just shakes her head, a little exasperated. "It says 'Clara' on half the books around you. And you did mention her during our last call. Figured it was her."

"Fine," John concedes. "How's New York?"

"Exactly as it was last time. Pretty much everything is, except Rory's on camp at the moment, so I have nothing to do," Amy says, grumbling a little. "You?"

John talks about small things for a minute before remembering their encounter with Skaldak seven weeks ago, and proceeds to fill his fiery Scottish friend in; Clara chimes in occasionally with details he forgets. Amy then asks Clara a few questions, who returns them. They seem to get on very well. Too well - John quickly becomes slightly apprehensive that soon the ginger will begin to tell Clara 'interesting' things he's accidentally done, or embarrassing stories.

"Ok, Amy," he says hurriedly. "I'll call you back later."

The Doctor ends up walking Clara home, claiming he needs to visit the post office, which is up the other end of her street. He doesn't really, but to add credibility to his excuse he buys a few envelopes anyway.

At around 6:50, he sits back in front of his computer, and recalls Amy.

"Hello," she says when she answers, drawing it out. "Has your girlfriend gone home? Shame, she was nice."

"She's not my girlfriend," John shoots back. "Wait, you thought she was my girlfriend? That was the kind of idea you got?"

Amy rolls her eyes. "You're so stupid."

"What?"

"Never mind. So she's not your girlfriend?"

"No," he replies, unable to keep the tiniest touch of despair out of his voice.

"Ha. Ha ha. Ha ha ha," Amy laughs at him slowly.

"What? Why are you laughing?" the Doctor mutters, incredibly confused.

"Sorry. It's just, you've always been a little clueless, and its funny to watch you struggle. Did you know you very obviously like her?"

John stutters a bit. "Um... How do you mean, EXACTLY?" He flails.

Amy looks like she's really struggling to refrain from rolling her eyes again. "I'll make this easy for you, seeing as I really have no idea how to explain it to our Mr Obtuse."

"Who?"

"You. Never mind, again. We'll get back to it. Basically, a very good way to test if you like her: would you kiss her if you had the chance?"

The Doctor manages to only blush a bit, rather than go redder than Mars. "That depends... When you say 'had the chance', do you mean she wants to kiss me, too? Or -"

"I feel the 'too' was the important word in that sentence. Besides, I'm only asking because I enjoy watching you drown in uncertainty and a total lack of control on the situation - I can tell exactly how you feel from the way you look at her."

"And how do I look at her?" John makes a show of huffing, but he's really only doing it for show; he's desperate to know what Amy thinks. She is, after all, regrettably the expert on this topic.

"Like you're pretty sure every star in the sky would just disappear if she went away," Amy describes.

"Ah."

"How many years have you known her, and why have you only started mentioning her recently?" Amy prods.

"Uh - I've known her a month and three quarters."

"Ooh, you are SCREWED. You don't see people look at other people like that often, and especially not after two months. This isn't some fairy tale, John."

"I know. But I can't help it. She's just too... Perfect..."

"I'm offended, Doctor," she tells him, utterly straight faced.

"You're perfect too," John adds hurriedly.

Amy laughs. "I don't need you to tell me that - I have Rory to call me all those nice things. Maybe if you think she's 'perfect', you should TELL her, hey?"

John looks horrified. "What? No way! She'll think I'm really strange or... Or..."

"She'll say thanks? Listen, no need to seem so traumatised, it was just a suggestion, Doctor. Why don't you ask her out?"Amy offers.

He shakes his head adamantly. "Nope. No way. I don't think I can do dates."

"It's just three hours talking to her."

"I think I'd quite like dates, then," John changes his mind. "But I've only known her two months; it took Rory ten years."

"In fairness, I met Rory when I was seven. Seven year olds don't date, so..."

"Fine, it took him at least FOUR after he started liking you."

"That's not to say I wouldn't have agreed to go if he'd been brave enough to ask me up front," Amy counters.

"But... But... Can we just drop this, please? Can I just go back to safely liking her from a distance?"

"Didn't look like there was much distance between you before. A little closer than necessary, even."

"Drop it," John advises, but Amy just laughs at him.

"You're pathetic," she observes.

"Hey!"

"Look, just take her somewhere quiet AND ASK HER. From what I've seen, she won't say no."

A few more weeks track on by, with the Doctor blatantly ignoring his Scottish friend's advice despite how much he wishes to follow it. Well, he'd rather run over himself than go through the awkward process of asking the girl out, but he'd like to actually GO nonetheless.

By November, John and Clara have largely abandoned the Tube altogether, instead favouring the Doctor's faster, easier motorbike.

As the holidays begin to sneak up, the senior students are showered in last minute assessment. Even though he's got lots to do, John always manages to find rather a lot of time to 'help' Clara with her work, even though strictly speaking she doesn't need him. It does transpire, though, that while he's a great deal better than her at maths and science, she is really much more talented than him at English.

On this particular Thursday afternoon, Clara's round at the Doctor's flat using his oven to practice baking soufflés for her Home Ec practical assessment; on account of her oven being broken.

"Damn it," she mutters, taking her third burnt pastry out. "What," Clara demands, "is it that I'm doing wrong? I measured and checked and rechecked everything so it was EXACTLY right. I set the heat to the precise degree the book recommends, AND I put the timer on so it wouldn't over or under cook."

John looks up from his maths study a little helplessly. He really doesn't need to be studying; he knows it all (hell, he could probably rewrite a high level curriculum), but it means he can sit there and try to help a bit without putting her off.

"I don't know, Clara, from what I saw, you did it perfectly," he assures her in a calming tone.

"SEE?" she tells the soufflé exasperatedly, as if expecting it to suddenly realise that IT, in fact, was the one in the wrong, and snap to correctness. It doesn't, though.

Clara sighs, pressing her hands into her face. "Uh. Why did it have to be soufflés, out if everything in the whole world?" she almost whispers, something in her in her voice shifting, nearly breaking.

John immediately saddens. He knows this specific dish in particular brings up a lot of memories for his friend about her mother. Without thinking about it at all, he jumps up and wraps and arm around her shoulders, tugging her out of the kitchen. Once he realises what he's doing, he panics a little, but mentally slaps himself into being brave. John leads Clara to the living room and very firmly tells her to sit. He half expects her to protest, but the girl just sinks onto the couch, one hand still clutching her head. The Doctor notes as he watched her for a moment that she looks younger when she's tired and stressed and upset.

"You should do something else for a while," John advises.

"Right. Yeah. Probably. I'll study for maths instead," Clara starts to get up to go in search of her bag, but John grabs her shoulder and forces her down again.

"Nope," he says. "Clara, you've done nothing but study constantly for nearly two weeks. It can't hurt to take one afternoon off as a break."

"I'll have plenty of break time on the holidays," Clara protests.

"What are you so worried about?" John asks. "You're doing great." He doesn't study much himself - mostly because he has a largely excellent memory, but also because he gets very easily distracted. By anything.

"I just..." Clara trails off.

John casts around more something simple to do; knowing Clara, she won't be able to sit around for long before she starts wanting to go and do stuff.

"Come with me, I'll show you a project I've been working on," he offers.

Clara smiles a little and follows him up the short three-step raise that separates the two halves of his large flat; she knows it fairly well by now, though she's never seen where he sleeps or works.

John takes her to his inventing room, doing a rather good imitation of Dracula as he dramatically swings open the door, earning him a laugh from Clara.

He watches her as she gazes around the place before stepping inside: the previously white walls are covered in posters and blue prints; mobiles made of copper knick knacks float from the ceiling; an old yellow car door from a Volkswagen Beetle leans against the very cluttered desk; a long, multicoloured scarf trails along the backs of several chairs - something the Doctor would knit when he was having trouble overcoming a problem. Painted across the ceiling is a strange series of circular symbols, written in gold. In the centre of the room is a large object covered in a white sheet.

"What's that?" Clara asks, pointing at the symbols above.

"A language I invented. I wanted to have a way to write notes to myself without anyone else being able to read them," the Doctor admits. "I couldn't think of where to start, but then I looked at the interlocking circles of our school logo, and thought I could use a series of related shapes and stuff. It's a little complicated, but it works well."

"Can you teach me some of it, sometime?"

It's his language, John thinks. The one he made up for himself. It took him years to perfect. It's personal. Not for sharing. "Sure. Of course. I called it Gallifreyan, seeing as I did steal the idea from school. But that's not what I wanted to show you. I wanted you to see THIS."

John pulls the white sheet off his newest project.

Clara takes it in, before turning to him, grinning, a glint in her eye. "Is this a restored real one, or did you build it from scratch?" she asks, indicating the shining 1960's style Police Box.

His face takes on that excited look it gets whenever the Doctor is allowed to talk about something he's truly interested in. "I tried restoring one, but it got a bit messy, so I just built my own. I was originally going to make it into a bookcase, but I think I'll just stick a comfy chair and a light inside. It's bigger than it looks."

Clara paces around the outside of the box, inspecting every inch of it.

"Didn't they have a plaque? A little instructions sign?" she asks.

"Yeah," he sighs, "but I haven't managed to find a decent one yet."

"Hi - Clara!" The Doctor says, tapping her on the shoulder as she leaves her maths exam, caught in the spill of other, eager-to-leave students keen on starting their holidays.

"Oh, hello, John, how was you Physics thing?" she asks. He takes in her expression; she looks a little worn out, but otherwise fine.

"Great. Maths?"

"Ok. I think I did ok."

"I'm sure you did brilliant," he tells her confidently. "You got everything right when we revised."

She shrugs. "Well, at least I don't have to worry about anything for w good while. Dad's in Blackpool again - he has to go three days a month - until Saturday night, so I won't have to hear him grumbling about the government," she smiles as she says it.

John hesitates for a moment before deciding to throw himself into deep water. "Listen, if you're not busy this afternoon, I found this really cool old house on a hill a little way out of town. Everyone says its haunted, but there's an old Police Box like mine there - it's probably got an instructions plaque I could 'borrow'. Want to come?"

Clara bites her lip for a moment before shrugging a smiling. "Sounds fun."


	8. Chapter 7 - The House Happenstance

**Hi there  
Claps for me for being snappy with the chapter update, and claps for you if you read it.  
The plot thickens...**

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**SHAMELESS SELF-PROMO: I have recently published a new whouffle one-shot which is only around 1k words titled 'And All the Stars'. I'd really appreciate it if you could check it out. Cheers.**

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The house was dark. It _creaked_. And groaned. And all the other horrible, scary little noises any self respecting haunted manor _should_ make.

John can hear Clara breathing beside him (beside and down a little bit). He can hear the noiseless suggestions of her movements, almost like _current echoes_, sounds that weren't quite there; or, at least, only almost were.

"Spooky," he murmurs happily, reaching out to slide his hand across the old, mildly chilly, stone column.

"Rather," Clara whispers in reply. Something about Caliburn House seemed to warrant quiet talking, as if the mind subconsciously thought that if you spoke to loud, you might wake something up. Whatever the something was, the Doctor wasn't sure. But it was probably a bit bad, at least.

"The Police Box is in the highest room of the tallest tower," he says.

"Are you quoting Shrek?" He can almost _hear _her smirk.

"Maybe," John replies, a touch conspiratorially.

His torch dies after only about ten minutes.

"You didn't think to bring new batteries?" Clara asks, and he knows she's either refraining from, or actually, rolling her eyes.

John frowns. "These _are_ new batteries."

"Did you get them out of a packet?"

"...No... They were just in the drawer..." he replies.

"So there's a very high possibility that they are, in fact, old batteries?" Clara mutters.

John face palms himself. "...Yes..."

"Well the good news is its not _completely_ dark yet, so we should be alright," Clara concedes.

John nods, still feeling slightly stupid. "Let's go quickly, then," he tells her, desperately trying to sound as if he still has some kind of grip on the situation.

They set off, half feeling their way through the gloom. The house grows dimmer by the minute.

Soon, it's almost too dark to see his hand if John holds it in front of his own face.

He knocks into something, hard. It's smaller than he is, so while the Doctor manages to regain his balance, the something falls to the ground.

"Ow," the suspiciously Clara-like something murmurs.

Guiltily, John reaches out a hand and stretches around until he grips Clara's fingers and tugs her carefully to her feet.

"Sorry," he mutters. The Doctor skims a hand through the air at approximately Clara's height. He taps her on the head. "Ok," he says, "you are _there_..."

"Excellent work, Sherlock, though I could have told you so much myself," he hears the sarcastic reply and grins.

"I'm just trying to make sure I don't trip over you again," John assures her.

"Well, I'll pull your hand if I think you're going to into me again," Clara says.

John takes this to mean that he can keep holding her hand. Her fingers are small and surprisingly cold. Technically, he supposes, that shouldn't be surprising, as a chilly wind is rushing through the house like a ghost, but he'd just been sort of expecting someone like Clara to radiate warmth. She does, though perhaps not of the physical kind.

The pale, glowing sort of mild light that has managed to worm its way past the columns, tapestries and walls in general that block its path illuminates the halls of the house just enough for the Doctor to see that a staircase is just ahead of them.

"Are you sure we're heading in the right direction?" Clara asks him quietly. Scepticism resounds in her words like a swimmer in a lake. Not harsh scepticism, more amused.

"Not really. I sort of just figure we should head upwards and hope for the best," John admits, feeling through the air for the bannister. He finds it, and begins a slightly unassured path up the stairs, leading Clara along behind him.

They first see what they jokingly decide is a ghost about six minutes later. John begins on some scientific explanation as to the cause of the whooshing sound and the unexpected slamming of a nearby door, but Clara tells him to shut up and pretends its a ghost because that's more fun.

"Who are you?" the Doctor mutters in an accent, one half of a catch phrase.

"Ghost busters!" Clara replies triumphantly, and they high five.

It seems as if the ghost is friendly, or not horrible (or at the very least, not real) as it follows them around the sprawling manor, cheerfully shifting doors and tipping over empty plant plots.

"I like coincidences less and less when they keep happening one after another," Clara notes.

John shrugs in reply. "I think it's interesting," he tells her, trying to sound confident and completely in top of everything, which he really isn't.

"I didn't say it wasn't interesting," Clara shoots back quickly, "I said I didn't like it."

They've been in the house at least three quarters of an hour before they finally reach the room that contains their reason for coming: the 1960's London Police Box.

John's hand slides off the doorknob as a loud thud issues from the room beyond.

"What was that?" Clara mutters.

John frowns. "I don't know."

There is a short moment in which nothing at all happens. Then the Doctor shrugs, and pulls open the door, to reveal a small, cramped room beyond. A semi-decayed Police Box sits sadly in the centre of the floor, belatedly admiring the prospect from the nearby window. John takes a step forward into the room, and feels Clara let his hand drop, allowing to move on alone.

He turns to her. "Are you scared?" he asks seriously.

Even through the dark, he can see her raised eyebrows. Her glare cuts through the gloom like a laser beam.

"No," she tells him definitely, and means it. "The floor looks a bit... Thin, though. Rotted. I won't tell you what to do, but I don't trust my weight on it."

"Oh, come on, Clara, you're not that heavy."

"Thanks, John."

"Come on. Please?" he tries. "This will probably be your only ever chance to see a real life Police Box."

Clara bites her lip. He can _see_ her thinking. Then she says something he does not expect.

"Dare me?"

He pauses for a moment. "I dare you."

She grins, and walks straight past him, and into the room.

Clara turns. "Seems all right, she concedes.

John steps in after. He gazes at the decrepit looking Police Box, filled with a sudden sadness that anything so beautiful would be left in the dark to fall apart.

This mental preoccupation is probably what leads him to stand on a hollow wooden board and crash straight through the floor.

His first thought is 'ow'. His second and third thoughts follow along the train of trying to recall as to where from this 'ow' came. His forth addresses the fact that something is tapping his face. By the time John gets around to his fifth, he remembers to open his eyes.

Clara is leaning over him.

In the scheme of things, John reflects, there are many, many worse things to see first when you wake up.

It takes him another few seconds to realise she's the one tapping his cheek. Words finally begin to break through the fog of confusion.

"Oi!" Clara is saying, looking more than a little relieved to see him conscious. "You ok? Well, you're obviously not, but HOW MUCH not?"

John tries to think. It doesn't really work very well. "I feel... sick," he decides. "Dizzy."

Clara brushes his hair away from his forehead. "I think you might be concussed. I don't know, I don't know much about concussion. But I know it's a thing... That happens... When you hit your head..." She trails off, thinking.

The Doctor contemplated shaking his head, but concludes this will probably make him feel worse. "I've been concussed before. No. I wasn't _knocked_ out, I _passed_ out... Because... Ah," John winces, as his brain suddenly seems to remember the searing pain in his right wrist.

"What?" Clara asks quickly.

"I think I sprained... Potentially broke... My right wrist. Ow. Not cool. Ok, I'd like to get up now," John says.

"No," Clara says flatly, shaking her head. "Even if you _didn't_ knock yourself out, which I'm not actually sure about, you shouldn't get up yet."

"What's the time?" John queries, after a moment.

Clara checks her watch. "Just after six."

"When do you need to be home?"

"I don't, technically; my Dad is in Blackpool again. He's not back until tomorrow night," she reminds him.

"'Course. Right. Yeah."

John doesn't feel great, but he is a little better than before. His tongue feels slightly thick and fuzzy, not everything is in proper focus and his wrist hurts like hell. All things considered, not too bad. At least it's not his writing arm.

A few minutes trickle by. "You fell about five feet," Clara observes.

"When did you get down here?" John asks.

"After you fell, I came down the steps. I got here about thirty seconds after you, and it was another ten before you woke up," she informs him.

A sudden groaning threatens from above.

Both of them glance at each other, and then Clara drags John backwards. The Police Box thunders through the ceiling, crashing spectacularly onto the rug. It sits there passively for a few seconds, before all four walls creak apart in opposite directions simultaneously. If it hadn't been so unexpected, it would have been almost comical.

After the dust starts to settle, John and Clara remember how to move.

The latter gets up and walks over to the desolated Box and tries to turn the blue front wall over. It's bigger than she is, and John wants to help (mostly because she's doing it for him) but his limbs don't seem to want to obey him, though his head feels clearer.

Soon, though, Clara manages by herself.

"This the bit you want?" she asks, indicating the door of the actual phone itself.

'Free Public Call Box' it reads.

"Yep."

One and three quarters of the original two hinges has rotted away, meaning Clara only has to tug hard for the small door to come away.

She gazes at it, for a second. "Ok," Clara mutters. "Well, John, we've got what you came for, but the fall was a little unplanned. What do we do now?" she asks, seeming as though, for once, she genuinely doesn't know.

Neither of them has a phone - John's is at home and Clara's is flat (they decide that while coming without any kind of communication device was probably stupid

She makes him wait another ten minutes before she lets him get up; then, leaning a bit on Clara but mostly supporting himself, they do their best to exit the house quickly. They do get lost a little bit lost, but, generally speaking, get out of the manor much faster than they got in.  
John still doesn't know what made the ghost-like noises and so forth, and perhaps he never will. But he does think that maybe, he'll come back and have another look around another time. He doesn't bring up the curious behaviour of the doors and shutters again in front of Clara as they walk, not wanting to freak her out (or worse, have her scoff at the fact that it is still on his mind).

John's motorbike sits passively waiting for them exactly where they left it like a little dog anticipating the return of its master.

"Huh," John murmurs. Clara arrives at the same idea at approximately the same time.

"You can't drive," she states plainly. It's not an instruction, nor a question, but some kind of neutral observation in between.

"Don't think so. Or, at least, I wouldn't trust me to drive."

The darkness is quickly becoming absolute, a couple of stars peaking out through the cloak that is the night sky, as if checking to see if its ok for the rest of the little, faraway suns to come out.

John flicks on the headlight of the bike, setting it to flash.

"What's that going to do?" Clara asks, eyeing the glow.

"It's a sort of mild distress signal. Like, I'm lost. Or, my battery's flat. That kind of thing. If anyone's nearby, they'll come give us a hand. If not, I guess we'll have to ditch the bike and walk, at least to the nearest phone box," John explains.

As they wait there, John begins to examine his wrist. It's swollen and reddish, he can see that from the illuminated path cast by the headlights. It's most likely not broken, though. Just very painful.

He should probably wrap it up, though. To be on the safe side.

John tears off the bottom part of his shirt to make a sort of bandage. Luckily, the material gives easily. Less luckily, the shirt doesn't rip exactly as planned, due to his only being able to use one hand, and exposes rather more of his stomach than intended. It's not that he's uncomfortable in his body (John was incredibly scrawny until about Year 11, when running training got more intense and he began to get far bigger and quite visibly stronger), its just that he'd prefer not to display it to the public. The public in this case being Clara and any stranger who came to help them.

He glances up. Clara is very pointedly looking away, so he's able to zip his jacket back up and pretend nothing has happened.

"Can you give me a hand? I just need you to hold the start of the bandage in place while I wrap it round," John says.

Clara looks around, nods, and does as asked.

This leaves them standing really quite close for a minute. Both of them notice several times.

Another few minutes tick by. The temperature drops. Just as John is about to offer Clara his jacket, two figures, who they are unable to make out, enter the blare of the headlight.

Madame Vastra and Miss Jenny look just as surprised to see Clara and John as the two teens are to see them.

"What are you two doing here?" Vastra asks, slightly suspiciously, her reptilian gaze X-raying John's eyes.

"We came to get a plaque off the old Police Box," John says quickly, not entirely sure what his teacher is thinking but is fairly sure it's not too good. He holds up said item as proof of his story. "No one was using it. It was abandoned," the Doctor adds, suddenly unsure how legal his recent acquisition is.

Vastra sighs and shrugs. "All right, John, though I swear you're made of trouble. What's wrong - or did you make the distress signal by accident?"

"No," John tells her. "Also, how come you're here?" Perhaps it's not the most polite of questions, but it just sort of comes out.

"We live nearby," Jenny tells him, unbothered by his question.

From this statement, John draws two things:

1. When Jenny says 'we', she doesn't mean across the street in separate houses.

2. It's less of a housemate relationship than that of another kind.

Admittedly, the second conclusion was largely formed from prior evidence, but still.

"What did you say was the matter?" their now-principal prompts.

"John sprained - or broke - his wrist and can't drive. He fell through a floor," Clara explains, as the Doctor doesn't immediately say anything.

Vastra tuts, though whether its out of concern or disapproval, John can't tell.

"Well," Jenny offers, "I suppose we can give you a lift."

"And John?" Vastra adds as the Doctor thanks her and starts to vacate the car, Clara stepping out the other side, "if you did pass out, like Miss Oswald told me despite your protests, its probably best that you are not left alone in the house in case there are any repercussions. Head injuries are unpredictable. Please be sure to tell your parents, no matter how embarrassed you are, and get them to take you to a doctor for that wrist of yours. I would take you now, but most medical practices are closed by now, and the Emergency Room is always so crowded on the last day before Christmas break."

The two thank her, and she drives off. They watch her headlights blaze for a second a the glow grows smaller and smaller.

"So, d'you reckon I should call Germany and tell them not to leave me unattended?" John jokes.

Clara frowns. "I think she was serious. I had concussion once when I was ten, and I would just get dizzy and fall over unexpectedly. I really don't think you should be left by yourself," she tells him. "You could call Ten and see if he'll come pick you up, and you could sleep over at his house," she suggests.

John is already shaking his head, however. "He's going to Scotland until Christmas - he left straight after school, remember?"

"Rose?"

"She went with him."

"Right, yeah. Donna?"

"I don't even know where she lives."

"Huh. Jack?"

He just looks at her.

"No, you're right," she agrees.

"D'you even think he'd be home yet after school, Oswald?" John shakes his head, only half joking.

"Ok, ok," Clara almost laughs. "Hmm... Well, I guess you could stay with me. We've got a spare room."

"Would your dad be ok with it?"

She shrugs. "Probably. I mean, you're my friend, and you're hurt, and I haven't got any other guests, so I'd say yes."

John's heart races for a few seconds, before he realises a very likely dual meaning of this invitation.

Clara Oswald sees them as simply friends and nothing more. Otherwise, she would have felt very awkward indeed about extending this offer.

"Thanks," John accepts. He wonders why he feels so disappointed about his sudden conclusion. Did that mean he saw them as (or hoped they would one day be) more than friends?


	9. Chapter 9 - The Doctor's Doctor

**Heya  
I wrote you some. Sorry it's short. I'm still sick, but I thought I'd better give you something or you'd all ditch me. Here you are.**

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When John wakes up, he immediately panics, for two reasons. The first being that he doesn't recognise the room, and the second being the stabbing pain in his right hand - or, more correctly, wrist. Though pretty much everything from his forearm down is protesting about its existence.

It takes a couple of seconds for everything to slot into place.

He's at Clara's house. In the spare bedroom. He hurt his wrist last night at the old house. It's still wrapped up in some of his shirt.

Fortunately, John has long had the policy of carrying spare clothes around in his backpack - or, at least, another shirt. For, you know, whatever situation one might find oneself in.

Unfortunately, while this is an old habit, so is his spare shirt. As he never really needs it, John rarely swaps it - this particular garment is from the start of last year (he's washed it, of course, but never changed it for a different one). He's been through a growth spurt, as teenage boys are wont to do, so now the white shirt is both a little too short and quite a bit too tight across his chest and shoulders. As he normally wears quite loose tops, this feels a bit strange. John catches sight of himself in the mirror, and thinks for a moment that he looks about like Captain America shortly after he'd evolved from Steve Rodgers.

He decides he'd better be safe and wear his jacket, too.

John checks his watch and realises its already nearly seven thirty. He's normally a very early riser, getting up at around four to five o'clock.

As he tentatively heads downstairs, he can hear Clara moving about in the kitchen. He suddenly feels awkward, before working out that there's really nothing to feel uncomfortable about. They were asleep in different rooms, after all, which meant they had been both unconscious AND further away from each other than they were most school days. John relaxes a bit.

"Morning," Clara says, reasonably cheerfully when he walks in, though he notices she looks quite tired. She's sitting on the couch, watching some news report on the TV, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea.

"Hey," John replies, suddenly unsure as to what to do. He mentally slaps himself, telling himself firmly to behave like he normally would. Else Clara will think something is wrong.

"Are you going to see a doctor or someone about that wrist?" Clara asks, flicking off the television.

John shakes his head. "Probably not. Almost definitely. I don't like hospitals, they're too... Hospital-ly..."

Clara's eyebrows shoot up. "You refuse to see a doctor on account of his workplace being too much as intended?"

John tries to think for a moment. "...Yes? Well, anyway, I'm THE Doctor, and I don't need A Doctor," he tells her hurriedly.

The eyebrows climb even higher, if that were possible. Which its probably not. Maybe he's just imagining it.

"Well," she says, "that's not overly smart. Unless you can fix yourself, perhaps you should get a new name," Clara observes.

The Tube hadn't been as crowded as anticipated, so they'd actually managed to get seats. Clara had come with him, because she said she was bored and had nothing to do, as it was holidays, though John suspected it was because she thought he might abort his mission half way through. He was happy to have her there, though.

As luck would have it, John had a sort of honorary uncle, Doriam, who was a doctor of sorts, and the teen would rather go to him than any other medical practitioner. Mostly because going to them was signing yourself up for enormously long queues and bills.

Dorium was, without any room for debate, the fattest man John had ever seen. He was also a bit blue. John was not exactly sure WHAT this was a result of, but it was either the curiously effective medication the man has designed for arthritis (which he administered to himself) or perhaps Dorium just liked the colour and tinted himself the shade.

Dorium chats happily to Clara and John, all the while trying to subtly sell them various goods of a questionable nature.

"And this one just came in from Moscow," John's uncle tells Clara.

"A monk's head, a pilgrim, we're guessing." Dorium waves it at her face, and the Doctor can see she's a touch uncomfortable, so he quickly says, "Actually, Uncle, we didn't come to buy anything. I'm here because I did something to my wrist, and I was wondering if you could take a look at it."

Dorium looks mildly crestfallen for a moment, before adding, "I thought you were more of a keep-it-quiet-and-do-it-yourself kind of boy, John."

"He is," Clara murmurs. "I made him come." She's inspecting what looks like a tiny metal salt and pepper shaker with a whisk.

Dorium chuckles gleefully. "Well then, I suppose I'd better take a look at that wrist. Miss Clara, if you wouldn't mind waiting out here... I have a message to pass onto John from his parents..."

"Of course," Clara agrees immediately and the uncle leads the nephew away.

Dorium wraps John's wrist properly, declaring it sprained, not broken, and tells him not to use it too much for a few weeks.

John doesn't hear much of what he says. "You have message from my parents?" he asks.

"Hmmm? Oh. Yes. They were wondering if you would consider attending university in Germany, where they are."

"Wondering?"

"That is a loose translation. It was more of a 'come to university in Germany' kind of tone," Dorium acknowledges.

John thinks for a moment. "Tell them 'no'. I have things here. Things I want to stay for."

"Is it the girl?"

"I never said that. I just said things. There are lots of things here I like."

"How long have you known her?"

"This is off topic. A few months, though."

Dorium is caught between shaking his head and smirking. "Well, you'll have to take this up with your parents, not me."

Later, John and Clara thank Dorium and take their leave, though not before the Doctor's uncle has pressed the little metal salt shaker figure into Clara's hands, free of charge.

There aren't too many people on the Tube when they ride home, which is unusual.

John doesn't say much for a while. He wonders if Clara IS the reason he wants to stay in England. Of course not. That would be silly. There's loads of other things. All his friends.

"Hey," Clara says, after ten minutes of utter silence from her friend. "What's up?" She hesitates for a moment, then tentatively reaches out and takes his uninjured hand. John's chest immediately feels like a supernova, despite everything, even though its not the first time he's held her hand. Every time time they do, though, it seems to him as if he's never done it before, and will never get to do so again.

John considers saying 'nothing' or 'it doesn't matter', but neither of those would ring true. Besides, he doesn't really see why it should be a problem.

"After I finish high school, my parents want me to go to university in Germany. I take that to mean I'm supposed to come and start working at their company, as well," the Doctor admits.

"But that's not what you want?" Clara prompts.

"No. I want to stay in England," John tells her.

She shrugs. "Well, you're going to be an adult soon. They can't ACTUALLY make you do anything. It's your life, do what you want with it," she advises.

John nods, and after another while, they start talking about mundane things again. But neither lets go of the other's hand.

They sit around at John's apartment for a while, with nothing much to do except talk.

At around 12 o'clock, the door unexpectedly bursts open, to reveal Jack Harkness in all his majesty.

"Hey guys!" he shouts. "Who's up for going and seeing a movie?"

After they've recovered from the slight shock, the two agree.

Jack knows, the Doctor suspects and Clara is unaware that the Captain has a plan.


	10. Chapter 9 - The Cinema Situation

**Hi there. New chapter. Sorry for the time it took to get this up here, but it's a long one so don't hate me.**

(OK, folks, a trigger warning - this chapter does mention, though not describe, some things such as severed hands - you'll see why - and I'm not sure if I need to warn you all about that because I know nothing about trigger warnings, but I don't want anyone getting upset. So this is my trigger warning. Though in mentioning the severed hand here I have probably just countered any kind of use this warning had... Anyway, nothing is described)

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they were standing in the cool, dim interior of the cinema lobby.

Three movie posters glare down at them from the walls: one little children's Christmas movie about an undersized elf, a supposedly scary film and a documentary about sharks.

"Well," Jack says, glancing at the promotional images, "I'm not watching a documentary or an elf, I vote the alleged thrills and chills of Maybe Ashes."

"Agreed," the Doctor consents, and though the elf movie does look quite fun, he's not about to say that out loud.

The two boys turn to Clara. "Right - um - yep," she mutters.

John gazes at her curiously for a second, as she seems a little anxious, but before be can open his mouth to ask, another figure sidles through the small crowd of moviegoers and taps the Captain on the shoulder.

"Fancy seeing you here, Ianto, what luck!" Jack exclaims, in a reasonable attempt at fake surprise. "Boys and girls, this is my mate Ianto. Oh, you've already got us all tickets? What an unprecedented chance!"

Very unprecedented, John thinks, but says nothing. He thinks he might like where this is going - practically a date where he didn't even have to ask Clara out. Chances like this don't come by to often. Though, with a quick eyebrow raise at Jack "the Double-Date-inator" Harkness, he doubts quite highly that it had anything to do with chance.

Ten minutes later, they're all in the movie theatre and seated, though due to the unfortunate positioning of the other cinema patrons, they could only find two lots of two seats, rather than one lot of four. This has resulted in Clara and John sitting together up the back, and Jack and Ianto a few rows down.

The film is largely fine for the first sixth of it or so, before people on the screen start being murdered and things jump out if the shadows. The first time a killer sneaks up on his victim Clara abruptly turns away from the screen to face the back wall.

"Is it over?" she whispers to John after a few seconds.

"Not yet," the Doctor murmurs back.

"What's he doing?" Clara asks quietly.

"Well, it's a little hard to describe, but it involves some sharp scissors and a lot of screaming," he tells her.

"I can hear the screaming, John," she responds sarcastically.

"Alright, you can turn around now..."

After this happens twice more, John finally gets the gist. Clara doesn't particularly like scary movies. By 'particularly', he means 'not at all'.

About forty minutes through, a severed hand drops from the rafters attached to a string, causing Clara to jump badly and grab John's hand.

"Crap," she mutters darkly. "I am never watching one of these again."

"Movies, or just scary ones?" he asks.

She glares at him a bit, but doesn't let go of his hand. "Just the scary ones, obviously, John."

A few moments later, when Clara is watching the screen, Jack glances back, and sees her gripping the Doctor's hand. The Captain gives one of his classic killer winks accompanied by a thumbs up. John frantically tries to signal nothing romantic is meant by the contact, but Jack's grin just widens.

Clara glances at the Doctor. "John," she hisses, not seeing Jack, "why are you waving you hands about?"

"Uh..." he attempts to think of an excuse that doesn't involve Jack's very obvious set-up. "Sorry, Clara, I'll stop," he responds carefully.

She shrugs and raises an eyebrow, turning back to the movie.

John's fairly sure that the Captain's grin is now wider than his actual face, though it manages to grow again when Clara jumps and hides her face on the Doctor's shoulder when someone is violently gutted onscreen.

Jack has now almost completely lost interest in the movie, and is violently miming something to John.

After a moment, comprehension finally dawns, and the Doctor gives Jack a doubtful look. But when the Captain signals for the go ahead, John shrugs. Jack (or the 'Bro Backup' as he was known by some of the boys at GALLIFREY who owed having their girlfriend to the Captain) is by far the expert here.

A little hesitantly, the Doctor gently places and arm around Clara's shoulders. He forgets to breathe for a while, terrified she'll throw him off, which would make the next hour and a half incredibly awkward, not to mention the rest of his entire life.

He feels her freeze for a second, then she relaxes into him. John feels spectacularly cool for around two minutes, until he begins to wonder if Clara's actually really uncomfortable but too nervous she'll upset him if she shrugs him away.

He's fairly certain his heart actually stops for a while until he sees Jack wink at him again, looking pleased. John glances at Clara, and sees her smiling a bit to herself in spite of her dislike of the movie. The glance is beginning to turn into a gaze, as they are wont to do when he looks at her, so he hurriedly turns back to the screen.

He feels as if a warm balloon is being inflated inside his chest.

Ten minutes later he's been so distracted he's nearly lost the plot of the movie (not that it had much of one, its mostly just scary) because he's so distracted.

He realises Clara has basically given up on watching the movie and is just staring at her shoes, wincing every so often as a gross sound effect comes on.

He doesn't actually think about it - he doesn't do it to get Clara to like him more, or think he's considerate. He just does it because he hates seeing her even slightly unhappy and this is the best way to help her that he can think of.

They're sitting right beside the walking aisle that runs up the middle of the theatre, so John knows this will allow them access out of the theatre without obscuring anyone else's view.

He grabs Clara's hand and pulls her upright (which, admittedly, is not a whole lot higher than her sitting down) and tugs her up the red carpeted floor of the aisle.

She seems surprised and resists a little. Once they're out of the movie theatre, and back in the air conditioned lobby, Clara spins on her heel and turns to him.

"What's wrong, John?" she asks curiously, wondering why he pulled her out.

"You're not enjoying yourself," he points out. The teenage attendant selling tickets looks at them with interest, so the Doctor decides to keep his voice down.

Clara's frowning at him. "Just because I'M not having fun does not mean you should ruin YOUR day."

John wished she understood that somehow, his happiness is linked to hers in an inexplicable sort if way. He just wants her to be happy no matter what, and then he'll probably be happy too.

"It's fine. I was getting bored of the movie too," John lies. "But I am hungry. Do you want up go and grab something to eat?" He doesn't want to pass up the opportunity to spend just a little more time with her before they have to go to their respective homes.

"Sure," Clara agrees.

The ticket seller from their school sniggers slightly, and they simultaneously realise they're still holding hands, and hurriedly let go.

They find a small cafe a block or so away, and take a seat, ordering hot drinks and two muffin things (John's not 100% where the line is between muffins and cupcakes).

As they're waiting, the Doctor feels his mobile buzz in his pocket.

"Be back in a second," he tells Clara, and heads for the corridor that leads to the toilets.

He doesn't actually go to the bathroom, though, and instead heads out the back door at the end of the short hallway that leads outside.

Leaning up against the back wall, John pulls out his phone, and reads the text from Jack:

_where you at my friend?_

John rolls his eyes, but texts back anyway.

**we left. she didn't like the movie. **

After a few seconds, a reply dings into existence.

_obviously. clara hates scary movies. _

John frowns at his screen.

_you knew? why did we go to that one then?_

He's not sure how Jack is managing to text so fast in a crowded theatre, but the Captain is managing.

**of course I knew. I asked her what her favourite movies were once and not one of them was a thrill ride *sigh* - no taste. oh well. she's pretty, john, I'll give you that. anyway, the plan was for you to leave. **

John's frown deepens.

_what plan? _

He can almost here the Captain's sigh.

**I made sure paul from school was on ticket duty so he'd see you go in together and come out. everyone at school practically ships you anyway, there'll be rumours by the time we get back after christmas. **

John raises his eyebrows.

_ships? _

The reply appears.

**don't ask. anyway, I hope you two are about to kiss or something cos I put a fair bit of effort into this. **

_hold up_, John texts. _you couldn't have known I'd get us to leave halfway through. _

He knows Jack is smirking.

**you'd think**, the reply says, **but I'm pretty fabulous. mark my words, I'll have you together before the end of winter. **

John sighs.

_good luck with that. I don't think we've got much of a chance. _

All things considered, everything actually goes pretty well.

Clara seems happy, which is good enough for John.

"What?" Clara asks, slightly nervously, when the Doctor has been staring at her for a while. A small frown sits across his brow, as if he were puzzling something out. "John?" she prompts. "What's wrong?"

"Hmm?" he responds. "Nothing's wrong. I was just thinking - I see you nearly every day, and sometimes we talk for hours. But we don't ever seem to run out of things to say, and I never get tired of listening to you." He hasn't actually meant to say that, so he finishes, somewhat lamely, with "Isn't it strange?"

Clara shrugs. "Maybe. I don't know. But I never get bored of it either."

The Tube is a bit packed on their way home, so they're pressed up against each other slightly. Which, John thinks, is hardly a bad thing.

Once they're off the train, they walk along slowly, not really wanting to get home and say goodbye.

Finally, they're only a house or two away from Clara's when she stops and turns to him.

"Well," she says. "That was interesting."

"Yeah," John mutters in reply, scuffing his foot slightly against the pavement. "Um... Is 'interesting' good or bad?"

She bites her lip for a moment, as if thinking of the exact wording to use. For some reason, the expression makes him want to pick her up and spin her around. Probably kiss her too. But, he supposes, her every expression makes him want to do that.

"Interesting is good. It was a good 'interesting'. I liked it," Clara tells him finally.

"Me too," John admits.

Another few seconds pass. She seems to hesitate about something,before stretching up on her tiptoes and giving him a hug. He hugs her back, as tight as he thinks he can without breaking her.

Even more unexpectedly, Clara gives him a quick kiss on the cheek before turning and walking at her normal, faster pace. Just before she goes inside, she gives him a small wave, and he waves back.

Once she's gone, he sighs and runs a hand through this hair, fairly sure he's stuffed up what was a very excellent opportunity. On the plus side, the entirety of him is now apparently glowing with victory. A hug AND a kiss of sorts.

That was pretty good.

John slams a palm into his forehead. If Clara was willing to do that, he probably COULD have kissed her. Damn. Damn damn damn damn.

"Don't worry, lad," an old lady washing her car on the other side of the street calls across to him. "From what my eyes can see, you've got quite a sporting chance with Miss Oswald there."

"You really think so?" John asks, trying not to sound a little desperate for her words to be true

"Definitely. I've known her ever since she was a little girl, and I know I've never seen her look at anyone quite like that."

"You've known her for years? But she's only just moved here."

"I'm her grandmother. I'm why the Oswalds moved to London over anywhere else, and particularly this street."

"Well, thank you very much," John says honestly.

The old lady laughs. Come to think of it, she does bear similarities to Clara - they're both short, with wide eyes and roundish sort of faces. "You're welcome. No, trust me, sonny, keep at it. You'll get there soon."

"Thanks," John replies, then, more to himself, "maybe I will."


End file.
